Finding Fate: An Intense, Fast-Paced Romantic Suspense Novel Read online

  With my attention diverted, I don't notice the general’s second before it's too late. The veil and some chunks of hair rip from my head and float to the floor, exposing me. Warm, moist air hits my skin just as a drenching splash of water covers me from head to foot.

  The unexpected assault sends water rushing down my nose and throat. Through my coughing, Nash bellows a unique string of curse words at the man inflicting my misery.

  "Take it off," the general’s second demands, then takes a sip from a metal canteen.

  "Don't do it," Nash shouts, but he’s silenced by a fist to his stomach.

  No way I'm letting that man close enough to touch me again. I try to tell myself if it’s on my own terms, it's not nearly as demeaning. ‘Try’ being the key word. With each inch the fabric slides over my fair skin, I channel the inner badass Nash thinks I am. Maybe if I believe it enough, the strength from the title will seep in.

  The soft blue material flutters to the floor, piling on the ground. Without the covering, my shorts and Strawberry Shortcake T-shirt stick out like a sore thumb, projecting my Americanness in bright pink fabric. Not allowing my gaze to shoot right, I stare down the man who's trying his hardest to take what little bits of self-respect I have left.

  Yellowed eyes roam from my tennis shoes to the rat’s nest that used to be long blonde hair. His single step closer spins Nash into a rage.

  At the commotion, I turn to see Nash launching one of the men holding him across the room and knocking the other unconscious with one punch to the jaw. My heart, already in overdrive, pounds harder, faster against my chest at the scene.

  Hell.

  It all happens in a matter of seconds. With both men down, I expect the general’s second to call for help as Nash storms out of his cell, racing toward me, but he doesn't.

  No, what he does is worse. Much worse.

  Nash busts through the door in a fury, ready to kill, but skids to a halt two feet from the general’s second at the sight of his large silver gun.

  Pointed at me.

  Trembling, arms up, I stare down the hollow gun barrel.

  "Stop." Nash's voice shakes as he keeps his eyes locked on the gun, on the finger lightly grasping the trigger that would take my life quicker than any of us can blink. "You don't want her. You want me." His chest heaves up and down with each labored breath.

  "No. Want the girls. Where they?" the evil incarnate man sneers. A resounding click sounds through the little space. Even an idiot who knows nothing about guns, like me, knows what that means.

  "They're gone, man," Nash shouts. "I sent them—"

  "Top. Off." The gun wiggles up and down, emphasizing his point.

  "Fuck," Nash says in near hysterics. "What do you want?" He points at me. "Don't you fucking dare listen to him."

  "I want girls. You took them—"

  "I took them!" I scream, my voice shaky. "He came to get—"

  "Shut the hell up, girl," Nash says through gritted teeth as his gaze finally connects with mine. "One. Fucking. Rule."

  Fuck his one fucking rule. I'm staring down the barrel of a damn gun. Who does he think I am?

  "I made him take them. I couldn't take it anymore. I couldn't take hearing them cry every night." My knees fall to the dirt, a small cloud wafting up in their wake. Sobbing into my hands, I cover my eyes and try to forget death staring me in the face. "I. Couldn't. Take. It. If you're going to blame someone, blame me. I made him."

  My gaze stays trained on the dirt as I wait for the repercussions of my confession, but nothing happens. Seconds turn to minutes before footsteps sound against the dirt and the door creaks open, then slams shut.

  My arms give out, sending my face falling to the dirt. Sobs rack my entire body until a large callused hand wraps around my shoulder, hauling me off the ground.

  Startled, I shove back, hands pressing against a warm, strong chest.

  "Hey, easy. It's me. Just me," Nash says, pulling me to him.

  At his voice, my fight dies along with what little strength I have left, sending me crashing against him. Not caring how I smell, I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him tighter as I sob onto his shoulder.

  "It's okay. He's gone. It's okay, Fate. Please, please stop crying."

  Even with the edge of desperation in his voice, I can't stop. The gun, what I just admitted, what that man saw—it's all too much for my brain to process. All I can do in the moment is cry, pathetic as it is.

  "I know it's difficult, but deep breaths in. Come on, Pops. Deep breath in." With his calming tone combined with the stroking of his hand down my hair, I take a shaky breath in. "Good, now deep breath out. It's okay. I swear it’ll be okay."

  "How?" I croak, my voice hoarse with tears. "How will it be okay?"

  "I have no fucking idea." Warm breath from my huffed laugh pushes against his T-shirt. "We just have to make it a few more days. The guys will come for me, for us. I know they will. No way they'd leave me here."

  "Then where are they? Why haven't they come already?"

  The breath from his sigh brushes against the top of my hair, sending goose bumps sprouting along my arms and down the back of my neck. "I don't know. I'm sure they have a good excuse. Probably had a spa day planned or something."

  "All jokes still," I say into his shoulder. "I swear you're messed up in the head."

  Ready to face reality, I press my palms against his shoulders to see his handsome face. This close, I take in the full unobstructed view. His wide smile bunches at the corner of his eyes, making thin lines appear. The dark brown eyes I've been staring into from a distance for over a week now actually have flecks of gold around the edges, giving off a boyish charm. A dark, full beard has filled in over the past several days, but it still doesn't hide the soft, smooth tan skin beneath.

  His thick brown brows furrow as his eyes search mine. This close, with his arms tight around my waist, still holding the lower half of me snug against his, everything outside fades. Almost like he feels the same tug, his arms flex, holding me tighter. Heat builds and throbs where our bodies connect, and a warm flush spreads across my cheeks as my breaths turn labored.

  "Your cheek," he whispers as he brushes his thumb along the tender skin. "It's still bruised." A dark, ominous expression flashes across his features. "I'm going to kill him. All of them. When I know you're safe and my actions won't affect you, I'm going to kill them all."

  A shiver rakes down my spine at the light rhythmic swipe of his fingertips down my side. On their own, my eyes shift down, focusing on his full lips.

  "I'm fine," I say, nearly breathless, the want and need for him stealing all my energy and focus. "But you," I say, still staring. "Too bad all those punches to the face didn't fix your bad jokes."

  The lips that have me in a trance pull at the corners, widening his smile.

  Fuck.

  Not into me. Just a good guy.

  Not into me. Just a good guy.

  "Is that a joke, Pops?"

  My lips pull up in a smile matching his. Until the hand at my cheek settles beneath my chin and tips my head back so my gaze meets his once again.

  "I've done a lot of shitty things in my life, but the one thing I've never done, never thought about doing, is cheat. I've been on the other side of it and it fucking sucks. But, Pops... what in the hell do I do now?"

  "What?" I rasp. "What are you—"

  The pressure of his lips against my forehead stops my words. The loss of his arms, of his body pressed against mine turns everything from fire-hot to ice-cold.

  He keeps my confused stare as he retreats one step, then another.

  Unsure of what to do, how to act, I wrap my arms around my middle and turn. Embarrassed hot tears slip from the corners of my closed lids.

  "What’s... what's going to happen now?"

  "I get my ass back to my side before I do something I'll regret."

  Right. Of course he would regret me. A silent sob shakes my shoulders.

  "Hey, I didn't mean...."
A frustrated groan rattles off the boards. "Hey, I...."

  My skin sizzles at the touch of his fingers against mine, but instead of giving in, I jerk my hand away.

  His sigh brushes over the top of my head, but still I don't turn, not until I hear the door swish open—only to find Nash is the one who opened it.

  "Where are you—" I don't get a chance to finish before he's out the door and striding to his side.

  Shouts ring out among the men, but Nash doesn't take notice. In fact, it seems he's taunting them, standing outside his door with those inked arms crossed over his chest. I watch in horror, fingers gripping the wooden planks, as four men rush toward him.

  Nash doesn't move.

  The first man who attacks loses his balance, his fist missing the mark as Nash ducks. In two quick moves, the man is on the ground, though two more quickly take his place.

  One after another, they come after him only to be brushed off like annoying gnats. Soon all four lie moaning in the dirt. Other men around camp take notice of the situation and come running, but Nash turns, steps into his cage, and closes the door. Without even a side glance my way, he falls against the closed door, chest heaving, blood pouring from his nose, and closes his eyes.

  "Do me a favor, Pops. Put that damn thing back on."

  "What? You have to be fucking kidding me. This whole—"

  "Just do it. Please, dammit."

  Through the rustle of the material, I swear he grumbles, "Fuck, I'm in deep shit."

  Chapter 15

  Fate

  Before

  Night bugs chirp and animals shriek in the darkness. For once it's a decent temperature for comfortable sleep, but I’m not—asleep, that is. Here I am wide awake, overanalyzing today’s events with Nash. You’d think I’d be replaying the gun in my face, but nope, not me. I’m overthinking my hot neighbor rejecting me when I could’ve sworn.... I’m even worse at picking up on social cues than I realized, I guess.

  We haven't spoken a word since his demand to put my damn burka back on, which now feels more suffocating than ever after the earlier reprieve. Somehow we went from joking to awkward in a matter of minutes. His touch shouldn't have affected me as deep as it did. Not here. Not him. He's not a bad guy, obviously, but just not the type of guy I should fall for. And again, like I keep reminding myself, I'm not falling for Prince Charming who came to save the... huh, what would that make me? Guess I'm kind of a mix between Cinderella and Belle.

  Either way, I need to stop swooning over his gorgeousness. And the way he kicked the ass of those four guys without breaking a sweat. And those bad boy tattoos covering the sweet feminist lying within.

  Shit. I need to get it together. I'm not the type of girl someone like Nash wants. He can get any girl back home with his cocky grin and soft brown eyes that make you want to sigh and smile. His half chuckle, half barking laugh annoyed the hell out of me at first, but now it's so him that anything else would be ridiculous.

  So, what are we? Friends? I would say he's like Mac, but I'm not attracted to Mac. Mac doesn't make my insides tingle and heart race with every stolen glance. Mac doesn’t make me want—no, need his hands and lips all over my body unlike anyone before.

  No, all that’s Nash.

  And what am I to him? A damn regret.

  Sometimes at night, I allow myself to daydream that I'm the kind of girl he would fall for. That he finds my weirdness beautiful and welcome compared to the blonde bimbos he's dated in the past—speculation, of course, since he hasn’t mentioned a peep about this girlfriend of his. That I'm the girl he actually wants to mean something and leave a mark so deep I'm permanently branded in his memory.

  But that's just a daydream.

  He's a good guy. A friend. A hot friend. A hot, funny friend.

  Hell.

  In the dark, I rub the bridge of my nose and sigh. There’s no way for this to end positive. Either I die here, or I go home brokenhearted still pining for the man who saved me. And if the past year has taught me anything, it’s that just breathing doesn’t make you alive.

  The deep rumble of an approaching truck barrels through the dark, snapping Nash awake. "What's going on?" he asks and stands. Staring through the cracks, he monitors the camp activity.

  "I don't know." And that's the truth, but the tension in my gut says it's nothing good. Surprises here, anything out of our normal routine, never are.

  The rumble grows louder before a pair of headlights blasts through the thick trees. The driver pulls into the middle of camp and cuts the engine. The general’s second steps out of the passenger door, staring through the firelight toward our pen. He shouts something, sending two men into action, rounding the truck to pull something out of the bed.

  For every step he takes toward us, I take one back until he's at the door and my back presses against the opposite wall.

  "Nash," I whisper.

  But he doesn't have time to respond. The general’s second steps through the now-open door and marches across the dirt, tightening a viselike grip around my bicep.

  "Let her go," Nash growls from the other side. "Don't you fucking touch her, you piece of shit."

  Not paying him any attention, the man yanks so hard my feet fly out from underneath me. Bolts of sharp pain shoot up my arm into my shoulder as I'm dragged across the dirt.

  No. I’m not ready. Please not yet. Not now. I want one more night to dream of him. Of pretending my dreams might come true.

  I kick and scream, attempting to get any traction I can as Nash bellows my name over and over. Splintering wood makes me pause to focus on the shaking shack. A wall explodes, followed by a barreling Nash falling to the ground amongst the rubble. Like he didn't just bust through a wall, he's on his feet in a flash and running for me.

  A gunshot rattles my eardrums. To my horror, Nash stumbles to the ground with a grunt of pain. All fight leaves me, my body limp, not caring where I'm taken as I watch him push up only to stumble a few steps before being tackled by several men.

  "Let me go," I beg. I need to help him, save him.

  The men around camp stare but don't move to help. Not surprising.

  "Please. Please help me." My voice breaks, making my words almost inaudible.

  "You will see. What you did. You pay," the general’s second says above me.

  On the other side of camp, we pause outside another piece-of-shit shack. I'm tossed in, the room spinning, and land hard on the soft soil. I shove my palms against the ground, shuffling along to put as much distance as possible between me and the man standing in the doorway.

  I should kick him in the nuts, punch him in the throat, and then get the hell out of here.

  Wait, no, can't do that. Okay, do the first two things, then run back, get Nash and escape.

  Easy.

  If I had a fucking wand. Damn, being a muggle blows.

  Vivid scenarios of what could happen next flash through my mind like a flipping sinister rolodex. The general’s second breaks his amused stare to move aside, allowing another man to pass. My lungs stop working as the new guy steps in front of me and turns, saying something.

  The general’s second shakes his head and points to the opposite corner with a long, thick-bladed machete. "That one."

  I track where he's pointing, rising bile burning my throat at what I find: a small form cowering in the corner opposite me. The man moves quick, snatching the now-sobbing girl off the floor.

  "In here," says the general’s second. "She need to see. She"—that menacing knife sweeps across the room and points to me—"took others."

  Beans and bread push up my throat. Falling to my hands, I vomit the little that’s in my stomach down my veil. Through the shrieks of the woman, I continue to dry heave, useless tears slipping down my nose to the material. Every fear of what those girls and Destiny went through on a daily basis plays out feet from me. The veil is ripped from my head, but I’m too numb to fight back. Fingers tangle in my hair, forcing my head back, exposing the length of my neck.<
br />
  Cool metal presses against the tender skin. "You watch what you did. You can't save her. Can’t save you."

  My vision blurs as I'm forced to watch. Anytime I squeeze my eyes shut, the sharp end of the blade nicks the soft skin of my throat, reminding me of his demand. Her pained screams will forever be imprinted in my memory.

  After the first man, he calls in another. Then another.

  After the fifth I stop counting. At this point, shock has graciously blurred my vision and shut down all brain functions.

  After, the discarded veil is slid back on and I'm dragged out between two men. No movement stirs from the opposite corner. No sound.

  Please be dead.

  And take me with you.

  The woman didn't even know me, yet the curse of my life affected her. I tried to do one good thing in saving the others, but now several evil things pop up in the wake. I did that to her. She's dead because of me. Her last few hours of living were spent in fear and pain.

  I did that.

  I'm the reason she's dead.

  If the world’s lucky, I will be too soon.

  Darkness still envelops the camp when I'm deposited in my pen. A memory tickles, telling me I should care about something, but the images of the abused girl shove it out of reach.

  "Poppy?" says a distant voice in the dark.

  I open my mouth to respond but nothing comes out. Because what do I say? Where do I begin with what happened tonight? How do I explain that I'll never be the same after what I witnessed? And that I want to die so I don’t have to go through life remembering?

  "Pops, I know you can hear me. I... I need to know you're alive, that you're okay. Okay? Roll over, let me see you. Please." When I don't move, his tone turns desperate. "Please, Fate. Please."

  Maybe I'm dead inside, because I can’t muster the energy to turn and ease his pain.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I drown out his pleas just like I did the young girl's cries.