Page 16 of This Cruel Fate

But isn’t this exactly what she fought for? This was what regular people did. This was the next step in being happy. Nausea assaulted Xolia. Her mind warred between saying yes, like she knew she should, and the fear that this was wrong. This is what I’m supposed to want. Wanting to want something would have to be enough. She nodded, body numb, and held out her left hand.

Marshall broke out into a wide and unrestrained smile. He slipped the ring onto her third finger, kissed the back of her hand, and continued to kiss up her arm until he could reach her face and kiss her on the lips. She returned none of the affection.

The rest of dinner passed in fast motion. Other patrons of the restaurant congratulated them. Marshall was exuberant in his thanks while Xolia merely nodded in silence. They walked home, hands intertwined.

At home, when Marshall initiated sex, she gave in. She lay there, mind far away with the trajectory of this change. What am I doing? That thought replayed through her mind long after Marshall had finished, slipped out of her, and rolled onto his side. She fell asleep trying to pretend she was happy about her day, trying to convince herself that everything was blissful joy. She was happy. This was always the plan.

Chapter Eight

An empty backpack lay on Xolia’s bed. She rummaged through her sparse closet for a reasonable change of clothes to maintain the façade that she would be with Rowan all night. Finding something nondescript, she shoved it into the backpack. Marshall had clung to her during the early morning hours. Surrounded by the warmth of their room, he had whispered sweet nothings into her hair before he left for work. All the while, she pretended to be asleep. Xolia called out of work, citing illness, something which only accosted variants if they were on their suppressants. She had been sick all of once in her life, when she was first put on heavy doses of the power-suppressing medication.

Now, as the evening drew nearer, she was dressed as inconspicuously as possible. Tight black pants and a formfitting black long-sleeved shirt. There was nothing for an opponent to easily grab onto should the fight devolve into something as unsophisticated as hand-to-hand combat. She plaited her black hair into two braids—her favored style back in the rebellion days.

She appraised herself in the mirror, seeing herself as who she used to be rather than who she was. Half-feral, ready to fight her way through hell to get what she wanted. Now she had what she’d thought she wanted, and it wasn’t what she’d pictured at all.

She shut her eyes. That was the doubt talking. This fear of living in the known. I am happy. This is what I want.

She opened her eyes. The doubt was still there.

Sighing, she went back to the closet, and she reached for an old shoebox, shoved behind other boxes. It was dented and bruised, but it wasn’t the box that was important but what was inside. A pair of worn but well-made black combat boots stared up at her. The ends of the laces were frayed slightly, but she could always tuck them into the band that buckled around her ankles.

Slipping her socked feet into the boots felt like coming home. In all the years of disuse, they hadn’t lost their memory of the contours of her feet. She stood up, shouldering the backpack, and rolled her shoulders. This was her last moment to back out, to stay home and fully commit to the belief that everything was fine.

She took in her small bedroom and the clothes strewn about the bed. Marshall’s presence drenched the place, leaving little of her. Absent-mindedly, she thumbed at the small band on her left hand. The ring. She slipped it off and tucked it into the top drawer of her nightstand. I just need one night away from it all. Then I can be happy.

Finally ready, she left the room and was almost to the front door when Marshall walked in. They both froze, not expecting the other. Movement returned to Xolia first, and she clasped her hands behind her back, hoping Marshall didn’t see the lack of gold around her finger.

“You’re home early,” she said.

“Yeah, I finished all my grading.” He stared at her. The braids, the clothes, the boots. The fucking boots. There was no way he didn’t recognize them. “You look like you did back then.”

“Rowan and I are going to a martial arts class,” Xolia lied.

“I thought you were getting dinner.”

Shit. “We are. After.” Xolia smiled unconvincingly. Her heart felt like it was going to break through her breastbone. “I’ll see you later tonight.” She stepped past him to the waiting and open front door. If she could just make it out?—

“Xolia.”

She turned. “Yes?”

He crushed her in a hug, holding her close to him, like she was the only solid thing in the world. Xolia’s chest tightened. It was suffocating. He kissed the top of her head. “I love you.”

Xolia extricated herself from him but not without giving him a chaste kiss on the lips, hoping he wouldn’t notice how she didn’t say anything back to him. Before he could comment or protest, she was out the door, almost sprinting towards the abandoned meat-packing plant.

It was nearing 6:30 p.m. when Xolia made it to the partially cleaned wreckage. The acidic smell of burning oil and gas lingered in the air, remnants of broken machinery. Xolia could have sworn the air still smelled of rotting cow.

Atlas leaned against an inconspicuous black SUV, arms crossed and a guarded expression on his face. He was dressed in a similar fashion to her—all utility. Even in such a broken place, and with the last drops of sun dipping below the horizon, he was golden. Any available light haloed around his golden hair. A spitting image of Silas, other than the hair. She never hated Atlas more than she did in that moment.

“I thought you chickened out,” Atlas said by way of greeting.

“But you waited,” Xolia pointed out.

He smirked but didn’t respond. Xolia walked to the passenger side and got in the car. She pulled her phone from her pocket and carefully placed it into her backpack and set the bag down at her feet. Atlas didn’t comment on the phone, which was a relief. She wouldn’t have been able to leave it at home without rousing Marshall’s suspicions.

Atlas took his place in the driver’s seat and drove through the barren wastelands to the outskirts of the city. “So, how is it working under Rowan?”

Xolia rested her head against the headrest and turned toward the window. Small commercial strips and dilapidated houses made up her vision. Why did she have to admit that to him? “I’ve gotten used to it.”

---