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

  His mate sucked in a breath and jerked above him, her hand flailing against his.

  Oliver froze. Shit.

  There was a jostling from the bed, the springs squeaked a bit, and then she tore her hand away from his.

  As soon as her touch was gone, a wave of pain crashed over Oliver, causing his back to bow a bit. He gritted his teeth against a groan and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Fuck,” he moaned, turning to his side. Oh, this was worse. This was so much worse than before. Knowing the peace her touch brought to his body and having it ripped away was a new low point in Oliver’s hellacious life.

  “Oliver?” Her voice was scratchy with sleep, but he thought he detected the slightest hint of concern in her tone. And it was the first time she’d used his name.

  “Yeah?” he asked through tight lips. There was a long pause as he waited for her to berate him in some way.

  “A-are you…sick?”

  Not what he was expecting. Oliver held a breath and struggled to get his body’s responses under control. This was only day three. This was not the worst his body could and would do to him. He had this. “Uh…yes,” he managed to say in a semblance of healthiness. “I’m just going to go….” He shoved to his feet, groaning again as his legs took his body’s weight and protested deep down in his joints. “Yeah, I’m just going to go.”

  Brilliant.

  “Wait,” he mumbled, stopping so quickly he nearly fell over. “That alarm was for you. Prayer time.”

  “What?”

  “I downloaded an app. It’s time for you to pray.” As soon as the words left him, he wished them back again. Why did he feel the need to confess that to her? She was going to think he was pathetic.

  A new wave of pain crashed over him, and he stumbled into the adjoining bathroom, slammed the door behind him, and flipped the lock immediately, which was stupid. She wasn’t going to follow him in here to make sure he was okay.

  “Shower,” he mumbled, knowing it was the best solution right now, even though the water would sting his overly-sensitive skin.

  He fumbled with the knobs, not really looking at what he was doing as his mind was still embroiled with his mate’s hand and how her fingers looked mixed together with his. When the water began to fall, Oliver started removing his clothes. Slowly. And even then, having to raise his arms to pull his shirt over his head was a small form of torture.

  He needed to hurry.

  He shoved his sweats and his boxer briefs over his thighs and to the floor, studiously ignoring the massive erection that bobbed before him, and slipped into the shower.

  He hissed as the too-cool water pounded his skin. A quick flick of his wrist, and the water turned warmer, but the sting didn’t vanish. That wouldn’t go away until he took care of things.

  And soon, it wouldn’t go away no matter what he did.

  He hated this part of day three.

  He grabbed his cock and gave it a rough jerk. The pain mixed with a shot of pleasure grounded him, and he opened his eyes and stepped fully under the stream of water, letting it fall on his head and shoulders.

  At the beginning, he’d taken care with himself. Treated himself gently and well. That had disappeared around the year-and-a-half mark.

  Now he didn’t care if he enjoyed his orgasms. He just needed them to survive. No part of this was fun.

  With a groan, he tightened his grip and bowed his head. He slicked his hand up his erection to the head and back down. Quick. Efficient.

  But now, he had a clear image of his mate’s face, not just a hazy, far-away glimpse of her form from behind the bars of a prison cell.

  He tried to blank his mind as his hand began to move in earnest, but his brain refused to cooperate.

  So fucking pretty. God, she was so pretty.

  He braced his free hand against the tile, and his fingers squeaked against the ceramic as they grappled for a hold. A low, heavy groan started in his gut and rumbled up through his chest and throat.

  He pictured those gorgeous lashes framing her toffee eyes while he came.

  Immediate relief.

  Immediate shame.

  His hand curled into a fist against the tile, and he banged it into the shower wall.

  God, he hated this life.

  He grabbed the soap and lathered himself down quickly before turning off the water with a violent twist.

  He stepped out into the bathroom and looked around for his change of clothes. He froze. He hadn’t brought a change of clothes with him into the bathroom. He looked at the door and then back down to his crumpled pile of dirty clothes.

  Fuck it. She was blind.

  He wrapped a towel around his waist and re-entered his bedroom.

  He was immediately met with the sight of his mate, sitting on the edge of the bed, braiding her hair for the day.

  She blinked up at him, and all thought vanished, along with the remembrance that she couldn’t see him.

  The feel of her eyes on his bare chest shot straight down to his dick, and his sudden erection was very unwelcome and very painful.

  Nice.

  He stormed over to the dresser, wrenched open a drawer, and blindly pulled out some clothes. He left the bedroom without a word and quickly dressed in the living room.

  When he glanced up at the microwave clock, he sucked in a breath.

  It was one o’clock. In the afternoon.

  He’d slept for around twelve hours. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that, but he’d probably been a teenager. No wonder he’d been in such pain when he’d woken up today. Day three was on its way to being over.

  “Um….” Oliver called toward the bedroom. Damn. Still don’t know her name. Well, he definitely wasn’t going to ask for it. Volunteering for her sharp tongue didn’t seem like a wise choice. “It’s one o’clock. Are you hungry?”

  A gasp sounded from the bedroom. She was suddenly in the open doorway. “In the afternoon?” Her eyes rounded.

  A weird sound—almost a laugh—left Oliver’s mouth. “Yes.”

  “Yes…I’m hungry.”

  They stood there in silence for several tense moments. Well, this is awkward.

  How do you make casual conversation with your fated mate whom you hate? Oliver scrubbed a hand down his face. Something had to change.

  “Okay, I’ll go get us some food, and I’ll be right back.” He paused. “That is, unless you want to come with me?” Fuck, why did he sound hopeful?

  Her brow furrowed. “I’m allowed to leave this room?”

  A muscle ticked in Oliver’s jaw. “Never mind.” He was suddenly insanely frustrated that she’d reminded him she was here against her will. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Fine,” she said in a clipped tone.

  Great. One step forward, two steps back. That wasn’t counterproductive at all.

  Oliver stifled a groan and stormed from the apartment.

  ***

  He was gone.

  Farrah spun around and raced back to the dresser, dragging her fingers along the wooden surface until she found it: a phone.

  She snatched the phone from its cradle. Who knew how much time she had? Food might be just around the corner, and Oliver could already be on his way back.

  She traced her fingers over the stout, square numbers and dialed with a trembling hand. This was a huge, huge risk. If just one thing had changed on the other end of this number, Farrah could be signing her death warrant.

  The ringing in her ear stopped abruptly. A deep male voice came over the line, delivering the formal greeting of the household.

  Farrah pressed the number five button twice, the corresponding tone buzzing through the line and carrying all of Farrah’s hope and nerves with it.

  She hung up.

  Immediately, bile crawled up Farrah’s throat. She covered her mouth with her hand. How long had it been since she’d hung up? Too long? She crossed her other hand over her stomach, closed her eyes, and silently counted.


  One. Two. Three. Fo—

  The phone rang.

  With a gasp that bordered on a sob, Farrah snatched the phone from the cradle and held it to her ear.

  “Farrah?”

  Farrah’s legs promptly gave out, and she sank to the floor with a thud. “It is m-me,” she managed to say.

  “Why would you call here?” Ibrahim’s voice was a blend of confusion, concern, and anger.

  “I had no choice. I am so very sor—”

  “Farrah,” he cut her off. “This number—it is from the States.”

  Farrah shook her head. “Please just tell me where she is. I don’t know how long I have.”

  “Of course,” Ibrahim said, his voice sympathetic. “She is in Afghanistan. Kabul. I am sorry I do not have more information. That was all I could find.”

  Farrah gripped her thigh with her free hand, her fingers digging into muscle. Kabul. Her instinct was right. She’d been in the same city as her mother. So close.

  “Are you…are you safe?” Ibrahim asked hesitantly.

  As though either of them could do anything to rectify the situation if she answered in the negative. “Ibrahim,” Farrah began, her voice infinitely defeated. “Thank you. I must go.”

  “I must as well. Khoda hafiz.” May God protect you.

  If only He could. Farrah settled the phone back on its hook.

  Kabul. She’d been as close to being with her mother again as she had been in fifteen years. And because of her kidnappers, she was now on the other side of the world. Bitterness rolled through her.

  Farrah hadn’t a clue how Ibrahim was able to confirm her mother’s location. They’d been looking for her since they’d been children begging the streets together; stealing from those who did not give freely so they would not be punished if they came back empty-handed. Ibrahim was the closest thing she would ever have to a brother, and he put his livelihood in danger simply by returning her call. He had a great life now working in one of the palaces. He was secure. Well-fed. Well-connected.

  And she was worse off than when she had started.

  She must leave. Now, thanks to Oliver, she knew the level of preparedness she needed before she could safely start making her way back to Afghanistan.

  A sick feeling settled into her stomach. Even the best level of preparedness would not guarantee she would make it safely to Kabul. She was a blind woman with no money and no prospects. How was she to travel across the world? Alone?

  Her life was not long enough and was far too pathetic for Farrah to accomplish anything she needed to.

  She sank further into the carpet, covered her eyes with one hand, and finally let the tears flow.

  10

  “I want her to eat the fruit.”

  Oliver was standing before Eli’s desk. Eli had offered Oliver a seat, but he was too anxious to sit right now. He needed this. He needed Eli to say yes.

  Eli took his time before he spoke. “We do not know her loyalties yet—”

  Oliver shook his head, cutting Eli off. “Doesn’t matter. I want—I need her to eat the fruit, Eli. If she Impulse pairs with me, this is over. No more struggle. It is the only logical step forward.”

  Eli’s brow furrowed. “You think the fruit will heal her sight?”

  It was the only reason they could think of that she hadn’t paired with him yet. No seeing him: no pairing with him.

  Oliver shrugged. He couldn’t think about that question, because if the answer was no, Oliver didn’t know if he could survive it.

  Eli reached for the phone on his desk. “Let’s call Anahita or Jayden in here. Get their take on this.”

  “No!” To both of their surprise, Oliver shouted the word. He tried to calm down. He really did. But the throbbing pain in his skull simply wouldn’t let him. “Just—fuck! Just let me do this, Eli!”

  Eli didn’t move. His hand was still stretched out to the phone. He stared silently at Oliver until Oliver thought he was going to go crazy. Or yell some more. “And if she eats the fruit and then runs straight to your prisoners in Afghanistan with all she knows…?” Eli asked, letting his question trail off.

  Oliver shook his head. “She won’t go anywhere. You have my word.”

  Eli’s phone rang. Both of them jumped, and since Eli’s hand was already hovering over it, he was able to pick it up before the first ring ended. “Yes?”

  Whatever he heard made him frown. A short time later, Eli hung up the phone.

  “She made and then received a call. From your apartment.”

  Of course she did. Oliver swallowed past the lump clogging his throat. “Dominos.” His voice was raspy. “She’s a fiend for pizza.”

  Eli sighed heavily. “You can give her the fruit, Oliver. We’ll clean up whatever mess this creates as a team, which is going to stretch us seriously thin if this angel war bursts onto the scene anytime soon. But you’re right. It’s the only logical step forward.”

  Black stars dotted Oliver’s vision as the rush of relief nearly overpowered him. He immediately began backing out of Eli’s office; no need to give the man time to change his mind. Eli’s eyes carried pity as Oliver closed the door, and boy if didn’t that chap his ass.

  Abilene had Impulse-Paired with Eli before she’d eaten the fruit of the Tree of Eternal Life. They’d had no problems.

  Well, that wasn’t quite right. He’d kidnapped her; she’d tried to treat him for PTSD. They’d had a mad man chasing them down with a gun. But, they’d both had the Impulse driving them. What Oliver wouldn’t give to have their situation as his own.

  He made his way over to where the Tree of Eternal Life and the Tree of Knowledge were planted in the center of the main room. He looked up through their branches, squinting against the sun as its rays glittered down through the glass dome and kissed the fruit that hung from the branches: glittering gold for the Tree of Life, swirling black and white for the Tree of Knowledge.

  Why was fate so cruel to him? He frowned at the black and white fruit. It was somehow responsible for his mate’s loss of sight; he knew it in his gut. And for a reason he didn’t know yet, she had been rendered blind while Max had been given the gift of Knowledge in his damaged eye. And because of her blindness, she couldn’t Impulse-Pair with him.

  It sucked ass. Fate sucked ass.

  He reached up and wrapped his fingers around one of the golden fruits, stroking its surface with his thumb. With a quick jerk, he popped the fruit from its stem. He hefted the small weight in his hand. The weight of the actual fruit was so damn disproportionate to the weight of its effect on his life. On all of their lives, really.

  Well, here went nothing. He turned and walked back to his apartment holding the fruit firmly in his grip. When he reached the door, he paused. He didn’t want to barge in on her.

  Damn it, it was his apartment.

  Still, he quickly knocked twice on the door and then opened it.

  She was sitting on the couch. Her shoulders were rigid, her lips tight. Her eyes were slightly glassy, and rimmed with red.

  Had she been crying?

  Oliver’s gut gave a sick twist, and he squeezed the fruit hard enough to release a plume of its mouthwatering aroma into the room.

  Oliver forced himself to loosen his hold on the fruit. He walked over to the couch and sat down next to his mate. She stiffened even more and studiously stared straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge him.

  What should he do now? Should he mention the phone call? Ask about the crying? Or did he simply announce he had breakfast and slip her the fruit?

  Merely by being this close to her, the pain of the Impulse kicked up an extra notch. Oliver was just so sick and tired of this. Of not having the life he’d loved before… Before all of this shit.

  Maybe he should just approach the subject of her loyalties. Resolve, once and for all, whether she was friend or foe.

  He sucked in a breath and blew it out through his nose. If she were the enemy, any line of questioning would set her on edge. Everything might h
inge on her sight. If it were taken from her by force, she may be innocent…. Start slow. “How did you lose your sight?”

  Immediately, he cringed. The words out there in the air sounded nowhere near slow. That kind of questioning would set an innocent person on edge, much less a guilty one. God, why couldn’t he be half as good at this as Luke was?

  When she didn’t slap him or start screaming, Oliver grew cautiously optimistic. Was this going to work?

  Tell me the truth. Tell me the truth. Tell me the truth.

  She finally turned her head. She faced him, said nothing, and gave him the darkest glare he could imagine.

  Oliver gritted his teeth, wanting to be angry at her but failing miserably. He reached out and placed the fruit on her knee, making sure not to touch her—a relief in his pain now would not yield anything positive. He wouldn’t be willing to give it—her—up in order to do this very, very important thing.

  Her fingers, the one’s he’d been mooning over this morning, examined the fruit. She frowned. “What is this?”

  Another deep breath. “Do you…believe…in the Garden of Eden?” Okay, that was definitely slower than his first question. But now, if she was innocent, she probably thought he was crazy.

  “Yes,” she said simply.

  Oliver’s stomach sank. “Why?” Did she believe in it because she was a part of what had happened to him? Because she knew from first-hand knowledge what the Trees did to man? Or because she was a liar and his enemy?

  Her brow furrowed. “Because I believe Allah. Believe in Him.”

  Oliver blinked. That wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting. If she were lying, wouldn’t she come up with a more elaborate excuse? He leaned forward, planted his elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. Lie or truth? Enemy or….

  Fuck it.

  He was just so damn tired of this. “That is the fruit from the Tree of Eternal Life,” he mumbled into his hands. “It turns humans immortal. Breakfast is fucking served.”

  ***

  “I am sorry. What was that?” Farrah asked, her voice catching. She held the object up in her hand and traced it with her fingers. It was definitely fruit; it smelled like heaven.