Of Blind Fate (Operation: Middle of the Garden Book 5) Read online

  He stared down at what he held: his wallet and his statue of a quarter moon—the only item he’d allowed himself in the way of decoration inside his gloomy apartment. He blinked several times as he tried to figure out why she would have them.

  When realization dawned, he gritted his teeth. “Stealing from me?” Adding to her guilt already.

  She shouted a laugh and began pounding on his back with her fists. “Oh, that’s rich. You stole me! An entire person!”

  Her little fists were landing so close to his ass, he couldn’t help saying, “A little further south, baby.”

  Did she just growl at me?

  “You are disgusting,” she said.

  He kicked the door to his apartment open. It shot forward and ricocheted off the wall with a bang. Oliver ducked inside the room and slammed the door shut behind him, tossing her paltry loot to the couch and dumping her on her feet so quickly she tottered.

  And, damn him, he reached out and steadied her.

  She slapped at his hands, which he quickly withdrew. But then she kept coming, slapping at his chest and face.

  “Stop it,” Oliver grunted. When she didn’t, he repeated it a little louder.

  For some inexplicable reason, this time she did.

  They were both panting with exertion, and in the sudden silence of the apartment, all of Oliver’s anger rushed to the forefront again. And it was heavily tempered by fear. She had been so close to leaving him.

  “You can’t just leave!” he bellowed. “We’re in the middle of nowhere!” His stomach lurched. “Oh my God, you would be out in a field. By yourself. Without sight.” A shuddering sigh wracked his body. “Damn it. What would I do if something happened to you?”

  7

  Farrah stood as still as a statue, afraid even to blink lest it draw his attention back to her before she could school her features.

  What was happening here?

  First, he defends her against, what would have to be, his own men. Second, he chastises her, but not for the fight, and not truly for trying to escape, but because he is afraid something will happen to her. That she won’t be safe.

  She was used to men “caring” about her. Protect her face. Preserve her virginity. But those instances were not for her benefit. She was more valuable as a beautiful virgin. Their concern began and ended there.

  This was…different.

  So, he wants me safe. What does he want in return?

  For the first time in Farrah’s life, the answer to that question was not exactly forthcoming. She frowned.

  And the knowledge that she was located “in the middle of nowhere,” as Oliver so eloquently put it, did indeed put a damper on her plans for immediate escape. She would need more supplies—other than anything she could hawk for money. How to acquire food and water…?

  “Woman—” Oliver groaned. “You are tearing me up.”

  Each of Farrah’s thoughts flitted away, scattering to the far corners of her mind. I am tearing him up?

  For some asinine reason, the accusation made her want to defend herself. A useless inclination. She owed him nothing, and if she was tearing him up, he could simply return her to her original location.

  And, yet, she truly did not like the idea of him in pain of any kind. Yes. “Asinine,” she said out loud, completing the thought with actual words.

  “What?” Oliver asked, his voice clearer now. He must have moved closer to her.

  Farrah held her breath and waited for her body to take a step back. To put more distance between them. Any time now…. She sighed. Apparently, she was going nowhere.

  “Does it hurt?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.

  She jumped as his fingers brushed over the area beneath her right eye.

  “S-sorry,” he stuttered. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Farrah frowned. She raised her fingers and gently probed the area he’d just touched. She sucked in a breath. “Ow.”

  Oliver growled. “He’s a dead man.”

  Something foreign fluttered in her stomach. “H-he was only defending himself.” Now she was stuttering? And why was her voice so breathless?

  “I don’t think I care,” he said.

  Farrah covered her eye with her entire palm, and the coolness of her hand eased some of the sting that was settling in now that the adrenaline rush was over. She drew in a slow breath. It certainly was not the first black eye she’d suffered. The next couple of days, however, would not be pleasant.

  All of a sudden, Farrah had to stifle a yawn. The brief nap that had been interrupted by a mob of attackers barely made a dent in her exhaustion. And it had been an eventful day.

  “You’re tired,” Oliver said.

  Farrah resisted the urge to roll her eyes. But only barely. “Yes. Being attacked by multiple men while being kidnapped from across the world is very taxing.”

  Oliver’s sigh was weary, and Farrah felt a corresponding stab of regret, which she immediately dismissed. She would not make this easy on him. On any of them.

  “I’ll take you to the bedroom.”

  All of Farrah’s alarm bells sounded at once. “I know where the bedroom is,” she sputtered.

  There was a heavy pause. “I’m sure you do.” Another pause. “Let me get a blanket from the bedroom first so I’m not freezing on the couch, okay?”

  Wait. He will not be joining me? “O-okay.”

  “But first….”

  His booted footsteps sounded. He was walking away from her. Toward…yes, toward the kitchen area. The soft suction of a refrigerator door opening and closing. A rustling. His footsteps approaching once again.

  Farrah instinctually stiffened.

  “For your eye.” He pressed something deliciously cool into her hand.

  She squeezed it. It shifted around in her fingers. “What is it?”

  “Frozen peas.”

  A breathless laugh escaped her before she could stop it. “Peas?” Those little round green things?

  “Here.” His fingers brushed hers. She jumped again. “It’s okay,” he murmured. He guided her hand upward, but she was too focused on the way his skin felt against hers to pay much attention to the direction of their hands. His fingers were so warm. They were dry and rough, and the way they interlaced with hers as she held the peas was distracting her to no end.

  He gently pressed the bag of peas against her eye, and once it was in place, he didn’t remove his hand. Their fingers were still slightly interwoven, and his thumb swept along her cheek.

  Every inch of Farrah’s skin erupted in goosebumps. Her nipples hardened painfully, a reaction so stunning, Farrah nearly choked on a gasp.

  Oliver began to speak, but stopped and cleared his throat. “Is it too cold?” His voice was impossibly deep.

  She shook her head. His hand moved with her, keeping their touch connected. “No,” she whispered.

  “Hmm,” he hummed. His voice sounded nearer. She swayed toward it. She could hear his feet shuffle; a sign he was moving closer. His warm breath brushed across the bridge of her nose.

  She snapped out of it. She jerked her head back. His touch vanished. “Thank you…for the peas.”

  His silence was nearly deafening. “You’re welcome,” he finally said, his voice tinged with sadness and a touch of something else she couldn’t quite identify.

  And more silence. If she didn’t say something soon, she was going to do something ill-advised. Like touch him. “What time is it?” she blurted.

  “Wh-why?” he stuttered.

  “I need to know for prayer.”

  A pause. “Oh.” There was a rustle. “It’s just about time for Isha.”

  He knew the prayer times? “Thank you.”

  “You can pray in the room. Just face the door and you’ll be in the right direction. I’ll just…ah…get the blanket and leave you to it.”

  She nodded. Her fingers clenched the peas as she heard him move away and quickly return. “All done,” he called from across the room. “The bed�
��s all yours.”

  Farrah frowned again. This was absolutely not what she’d expected. Without a word, she made her way to the bedroom, dodging the furniture she knew lay in her path. She felt his gaze burn her back the entire way. When she reached the room, she began to draw the door closed behind her.

  “Good night,” Oliver whispered from the living room.

  Farrah closed her eyes and shut the door without returning the sentiment. What in the world was happening to her?

  8

  Day Three of the Cycle

  Oliver paced the living room. On each pass, his eyes undoubtedly strayed to the clock on the microwave.

  12:01.

  It was officially the next day now.

  Oliver leaned his head back and rolled it left and right, trying in vain to alleviate the uncomfortable twinge at the base of his neck. It had begun. He was one minute into the third day, and the more intense pain was already starting.

  And the cure to the pain was just a few feet away, curled up in his nice, comfortable bed.

  Oliver groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, only, that didn’t help matters. With his eyes closed, his mind was able to perfectly project against the black screen of his eyelids the exact moment when Oliver’s touch had caused his mate’s body to erupt in goosebumps.

  And caused her nipples to harden and press against the fabric of her tunic.

  And she hadn’t been cold.

  “Ah, fuck,” Oliver muttered, putting some extra speed into his pacing. He would not go into that bedroom. He would not crawl in bed beside her. He would not cover her with his body and lick his way into her mouth. And he would not slide his aching cock into her slick, wet heat.

  Well, now, those thoughts were definitely not helping.

  Neither were his confining pants. Oliver tried his best to rearrange himself with minimal contact and eventually had to resort to using the heel of his palm. Once he wasn’t being pinched so badly, he resumed the same break-neck speed.

  But somehow, his trajectory veered so that now he was standing directly in front of his closed bedroom door.

  Idiot.

  Somehow, his hand landed on his doorknob. “If it’s locked, I’ll just turn right around.” He sucked in a breath and turned his wrist.

  Unlocked.

  He was pretty sure his lungs had frozen around the breath he held, and his vision was slightly wonky as he pushed open the door. It swung inward without a sound.

  The lights were on. It was the first thing he noticed, and for some reason, it bothered him. Sure, she couldn’t see them, but he couldn’t help blaming the lights for the fact that she looked so damn uncomfortable right now in her sleep.

  She was curled on her side into such a tight ball that her knees nearly touched her chest. Her arms were locked around them, and her head was tucked down so that he couldn’t see her face except for those lush eyelashes that drove him frickin’ crazy on a regular basis.

  Her breathing was so shallow that her ribcage barely moved. He could feel her tension from here, and he wondered how in the world she could possibly be getting any rest in this position.

  He hesitated. She wouldn’t want him anywhere near her. Her body language had screamed that when he mentioned the bed earlier. But, at least he could turn out the lights. He could do that and leave. Couldn’t he?

  He flicked the light switch just inside the door and moved into the room, picking up his feet to silence his steps, taking care not to wake her. He walked around the bed to the nightstand, reached forward, and clicked the lamp off.

  Okay, it’s dark now. Time to leave.

  He just stood there. The light from the living room streaked through the open bedroom door and landed on his mate as though she were standing in a spotlight on a stage.

  Her hair looked unbelievably soft. She had unbraided it since he saw her last, and it fanned out behind her in waves across the pillow where Oliver usually slept. It was so long. So damned…pretty.

  He stopped his hand when he realized it was reaching out for her. He didn’t remember moving it toward her, and he definitely didn’t give his hand permission to touch her hair. He hated the Impulse.

  I will not touch her in her sleep. Fucking creepy.

  With great force of will, he moved his arm back to his side, his fingers brushing against his pillow along the way.

  He jumped when she sighed. Before he could have any other reaction, she flipped over faster than he could have imagined possible.

  Oh, shit. Shit!

  He was standing here at the edge of the bed staring down at her while she was sleeping. This was not going to go over well.

  Oliver held his breath and mentally poured over what he could say to her that wouldn’t be pathetic and inexcusable when she justifiably screeched in his face for being a perv.

  But she didn’t wake up. Instead, she settled her cheek against Oliver’s pillow. Her right hand moved up and pressed against the pillowcase in the same spot where Oliver’s fingers just were, and as soon as her fingers rested there, she relaxed. Her entire body seemed to heave a sigh of relief. She stretched out, nuzzled Oliver’s pillow, and fell into a sleep so deep that her breathing evened out and ended in the tiniest of snores.

  Oliver blinked down at her, feeling as though he had been mule-kicked in the stomach.

  Something—some part of her—felt safe around him. Craved him. And he really didn’t know what to do with that knowledge. But beyond that, he sure as hell didn’t want to walk back into the living room and try to fall asleep on that damned cold couch.

  The One, the Voice whispered to him again as Oliver gazed at the woman.

  “Yeah, got that,” he muttered beneath his breath. What I wouldn’t give for her not to be. Even as he had the thought, his heart panged, violently disagreeing with him.

  She shivered: her shoulders vibrating and her chin tucking into her arm. Moving as slowly as possible, Oliver reached down toward the end of the bed, grabbed a handful of the comforter, and pulled it up to his mate’s shoulders. Not able to just stop there, he even tucked her in, pushing the blanket tightly around her.

  Okay, time to back off now.

  Any time now. He would turn around and walk back into the other room. He would leave her alone.

  “Fuck,” he whispered. He covered his eyes with his hand and heaved a breath. He looked down at the ground beside his bed. Hell, he couldn’t really sleep in his bed or even on the couch after all of the years he’d spent sleeping on a ratty prison cot. The patch of carpet at his feet was far more inviting than anything had a right to be.

  He couldn’t believe he was doing this. He gritted his teeth and sank to his knees and then his back, stretching out on the floor beside the bed that held his mate.

  Yep. This is as pathetic as I hypothesized it would be.

  Didn’t matter. He wasn’t moving. His mate’s snores were somehow the best thing he’d ever heard, and before he knew it, his eyes were drifting closed.

  Right before he fell asleep, he reached over with his right hand and grasped the blanket hanging over the edge of the bed with his fist, holding on to something that was touching her. It was all he could allow himself.

  And for right now, it was just enough.

  9

  Oliver was dreaming, and it was one of his most vivid Impulse-Mate dreams ever. He fought the beginning dawning of wakefulness tooth and nail, not ready to leave this happy place where he was touching his mate, and she was touching him, and he had absolutely no pain.

  And it wasn’t even an erotic dream. He was simply holding her hand.

  He lost the battle with wakefulness. Of course. The backs of his eyelids now glowed pink with the light that must be streaming through his bedroom window. It was morning, and he was awake.

  Damn it.

  But, he was still pain free. His brow furrowed, and he refused to open his eyes. It was day three of the cycle, and he was pain free. And…holy God, was he actually holding his mate’s hand?

  Th
at revelation got his eyes to open.

  He blinked several times. His nose was all-but-buried into the wooden bed frame. The carpet was ingrained into his right cheek. As his vision finally cleared, he turned his head slightly to the left and looked up.

  Holy fuck. There it was: his mate’s hand in his.

  Her beautiful arm was hanging over the edge of the bed. His arm was craned upward. Their hands met halfway in between, with her fingers intertwining his.

  He sucked in a breath, and the morning wood he’d woken up with kicked so violently that he choked a little bit on that hasty intake of air.

  His fingers clenched against hers, and he immediately loosened his hold lest any change in pressure awaken her. He needed this for as long as he could have it.

  How had this even happened? He stared in awe at her fingers between his. She must be complicit in this, too. They wouldn’t be holding hands if she hadn’t reached for him as he had reached for her. Their hands wouldn’t be so jumbled together that he couldn’t tell where her fingers ended and his began if she hadn’t interwoven her hand with his. So what if they were both unconscious when it happened. It happened. It was a start.

  Her fingers were…beautiful.

  Her skin was so dark compared to his, and the contrast made his mouth run dry. Her fingers were slim—so tiny in his grip that he contemplated loosening his hold even more to avoid hurting her. But he couldn’t bear to hold her less.

  The thing that made her fingers most beautiful, however, was her nails. They weren’t perfectly manicured. They were chipped. Some even had dirt under the tips. These were the nails of a woman who worked hard and fought for what she needed.

  And they made her stunningly gorgeous to Oliver.

  His gaze traveled north a bit and snagged on her delicate wrist. She had that bump that some women have at the corner of her wrist right where her arm met her hand. Oliver swallowed hard and brought his other hand up. His fingers brushed over that bump with the lightest of caresses.

  His cellphone began to beep loudly in his pocket, and every muscle in his body stiffened in panic before he reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and silenced the alarm.