Page 54

Fate

Before

I’m past shock, pastthe point of numb. What does that make me—a somewhat awake vegetable? Breathing but not seeing, hearing, or feeling. The past few days are a blur, like I’m watching a movie of my own life while living it. Nothing matters anymore.

Since that horrible night, Nash talks to himself, rambling on and on and hoping I’ll respond. Two nights ago, he shared the story of why their team was sent in by the CIA seven days into my captivity instead of waiting the full four weeks for extraction. Apparently, the CIA picked up on chatter that some of the locals planned to raid the small militant group in retaliation for kidnapping their girls. The CIA didn't want me caught in the crossfire, so Nash and his elite private black ops team were called in to pull me out. Then I went and screwed it all up. The raid never happened, maybe because the girls were returned to them, or maybe part of the elite team's objective was to calm down the villagers. Nash didn’t know since he's been stuck here.

Gentle dripping on the tin roof from the constant rain is the only sound this morning. Which is odd since Nash has talked nonstop every waking second.

Rolling against the hard ground to my side, I scan through the gap in the boards. In typical Nash fashion, he's on his back, arms and legs splayed out along the ground. And still shirtless, which of course I don’t mind, but it’s still odd for him.

Maybe he's done trying. Wouldn't blame him; I haven’t been the best company the past few days. Just the thought smothers the last bit of hope I have... but giving up on me is the last thing Nash would do.

I lean up on my elbows for a better view.

He doesn't move.

Palms and knees against the moist ground, I crawl closer to the dividing wall.

Still not a single movement.

Unease blooms in my belly, making my heart race.

"Hey." My voice scratches my throat from lack of use the past few days. "Nash?"

Ever so slowly, his eyes peel open and his head lolls to face me. "Hey there, beautiful."

Beautiful? Shit, what did they give him? "Um, what's wrong with you?”

"All good. Go back to sleep, Pops. And keep it down, would ya? You're yelling."

But I'm not.

"Nash, stop fucking around. Tell me what's wrong with you. Did they give you something?"

"Fuck, I wish. I'm fine, Pops." His voice breaks, like each word causes him pain.

"But you're not. So tell me, dammit. What the hell is wrong with you?" Okay, now I’m shouting.

"You know what sucks?"

"What?"

"That we won’t get the best part of fighting. Makeup sex is the best sex there is. Scratch that, I bet it would all be the best with you."

I knit my brows together beneath the veil. "What the hell—never mind." Through the streaming bits of morning light, I monitor the rapid rise and fall of his chest. "You're sick," I breathe.

"In the head, yes, you've mentioned it."

"No, really sick. What's wrong with you?" The wood groans when I push off to grab the cup of water by the door. "Come over here. Get some water."

Each inch, every move looks painful. His arms and left leg tremble as he drags himself across the dirt, but the right leg trails behind him like dead weight. He collapses in front of me with a groan.

"Hey, come on. Drink this, okay?" I find the perfect angle after a couple attempts for more water to hit his mouth than the damp wood. "How sick are you?"

"Started two days ago. Realized I couldn't get warm." It’s now that I notice his chattering teeth. "But I'm sweating."

"A fever. But why?" Those big brown eyes open and focus on me, forcing a distant memory to surface. "You... you were shot. That night... the night... where?"