Page 10 of This Cruel Fate

“It was kind of him to lend you his jacket,” Semele said with a small and demure smile.

Xolia nodded once, not wanting to spend longer on this topic than needed. “So, Semele, what have you been doing these past few years?”

Tactfully, Rowan turned to listen to Semele and Marshall followed. “I’m so glad you asked,” she gushed, “because I’ve actually devoted my life to Sel and the Church of Rheatha. They gave me a purpose after the Revolution ended.”

“Oh.” Xolia didn’t know how else to respond. Religion wasn’t really her thing, and Semele’s answer was too rehearsed to be anything other than a desperate ploy to get others to convert.

“That’s incredible,” Rowan responded. “I think the church has done a lot to help with the integration of schools; Marshall teaches at one.”

Semele turned to him in wide-eyed wonder. At the mention of Marshall’s job, Xolia further retreated from the conversation. Just like religion, she wasn’t much one for children either. With slow, shuffled steps, Xolia found herself at the edge of the small circle; no one stopped to invite her back in.

Listless and tired, Xolia took in a quick sweep of the room, hoping she might catch Peter to apologize. She stopped when she spotted Adonis, his dark gaze homed in on her. And for one brief moment, it was just the two of them in the room, drinking the other in like all their secrets might be spilled if they just looked hard enough.

Behind her, Marshall scoffed and broke whatever trance held them both. “Good job, he’s headed over this way now.”

“Don’t be so immature,” Xolia snapped.

Adonis met Xolia and her small party with a slight nod and an even smaller smile. “Marshall, Rowan, Semele.”

“Adonis,” Rowan said. “How are you?”

He lifted a shoulder. “Can’t complain.” He stopped and leaned forward slightly. “But, I have to ask, why are you wearing glasses?”

Rowan defensively adjusted the aforementioned object over the bridge of her nose. Xolia suppressed a laugh. “I like them,” Rowan said. “And maybe there is something helpful in them; I haven’t run into a single person tonight.”

“Fair,” Adonis ceded.

“Adonis.” A clear voice rang out over the dim chatter.

A beautiful woman stepped up to them, and while Xolia was sure she had never met her before, there was something familiar about her. Something about the jut of her prominent cheekbones and the strong nose. “This is Helen DuBois,” Adonis said, introducing her.

“Like General DuBois?” Marshall beat Xolia to the punch.

The woman, who was now draped across Adonis’s arm, looked exactly like her father. If he was more feminine and younger. Irrational jealousy swept through Xolia.

Helen nodded. “Xolia, it’s an honor to meet you. My father spoke of little else during the Revolution.”

Xolia blanched. While her run-ins with General DuBois had been few and far between, neither had ever managed too fully best the other. And then he had betrayed the Gornne Administration for FAR before they could ever fully parse out who was the better strategist between the two. “I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”

“If you knew my father, you’d know it’s the highest compliment.”

Jealousy turned to exasperation. She couldn’t hate someone who talked her up like that. The importance that Xolia used to feel bubbled up inside her. A warm feeling that promised more. That hungered for more.

“Well, it was nice to meet you, but Xolia and I were planning to leave,” Marshall said, an ingenuine smile stretching across his face. Xolia grimaced, he really was a horrible liar.

Rowan and Semele said their goodbyes, and Xolia answered in kind, though she kept glancing back at Adonis. It was impossible not to when he kept staring at her. She wanted to say more to him, to ask him about what he had said earlier, but there was no time. She was pulled along by Marshall to the front doors, stolen suit jacket and all.

The brisk night air cleared Xolia’s mind. She and Marshall walked down the twinkling drive, their breaths barely visible puffs. Her mind raced with the events of the day, and her body sighed at the prospect of making it home. All she wanted to do was to curl up in a ball and find the refuge of sleep. Exhaustion cloaked her, as thick and heavy as the jacket she wore. The coat that smelled like Adonis. Xolia sped up.

“Slow down,” Marshall lamented from a few paces behind her. He jogged to catch up when she stopped under a lone streetlamp, its neighbors on either side broken and dark. He caught his breath with his hands resting on his thighs. “Xolia, I’m sorry I didn’t leave when you wanted to.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Are you sorry because you made me stay or because you had to talk to Adonis?”

He scoffed and stood straight, allowing her to start for home again. “Next time I’ll be more excited to see your ex.”

The last thing Xolia wanted to do was talk about Adonis. He was immaterial to her at the moment. For Marshall to be so fixated on him made the whole situation that much more unbearable. She couldn’t coddle Marshall’s ego when she already had to carry the guilt for letting Peter down and had to think about Atlas’s weird behavior. And she had to figure out a way to learn more about the protests against Peter. They didn’t have a television. And with Marshall home for the weekend, she wouldn’t have much time to herself.

“You’re walking too fast again,” Marshall shouted.

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