Page 20 of This Cruel Fate

Shit, shit, shit. She cursed her sluggish mind for having ignored major problems in her initial guess as to whose house she was in. Atlas’s house was on the grounds of the Presidential Palace, and the impersonal modern art was far from the historical accuracy he kept. Where am I?

The only solace she found was in the fact that whomever her mystery benefactor was, they didn’t want her dead. Which meant they weren’t associated with whomever had tried to kill her. Maybe they knew who did it. Calling the water that sat in the glass, she formed a small knife, grasping it with stiff fingers.

Slowly opening the door, she peeked into the darkened hallway. No one. She took one cautious step into the hall and then another. To her left was a large living area, and to the right the hallway continued.

Which way? She lowered the dagger, considering her best chance for a successful confrontation. She settled for the hallway and turned right.

“I was wondering when you would wake up,” a deep, and regrettably familiar voice rumbled from behind her. Xolia jumped.

“Adonis?” She spun.

Standing in the entryway to the living area, Adonis flicked on a warm light and gestured to a sleek couch. Xolia bypassed him, but not without remaining wary every second her back was to him. Earlier, she had been so sure she was in relative safety, but she didn’t know Adonis anymore. She picked up her pace to the wall of windows, an exact mirror to the bedroom. While she wanted to press her nose to the glass and take in the city she had spent a lifetime in, she turned and rested her back on the glass.

Adonis hadn’t moved from the entryway, but his eyes had followed her. The hair on the back of her neck rose. His hands were shoved into the pockets of a pair of black joggers.

He broke the silence. “What the hell were you doing at the fights?”

Xolia bristled. Who was he to talk to her like that? And, really, what would she even say? Sometimes I hate my life? That was too blunt and saying it out loud would mean she believed it. She couldn’t afford to believe it. “I don’t have to tell you.”

“Please.” Adonis waved off her paltry retort and joined her by the windows, finally focusing on something other than her. “I’m not FAR’s poster child. And I didn’t get shot.”

Her cheeks burned, and she was thankful she was turned away from him enough to shield her vulnerable expression. She leaned her head back against the glass, finally facing Adonis. Moonlight cascaded over his face, casting shadows that pronounced the sharp lines of his cheekbones and nose. He cut an imposing figure, even in casual attire.

“I don’t know who shot you,” Adonis admitted. “But I’ll find out.”

She scoffed, though it carried no malice. He talked like he still cared about her, like he would’ve back in the old days. How different he was from Marshall. Shit. Marshall. He’s probably tried to call me. Her phone was tucked away in Atlas’s car. Which could be anywhere.

“That’s not my biggest worry,” she said, pushing off the windows and pacing around the unfamiliar room, her water dagger still clutched in her hand. “How long have I been here?”

“It’s Sunday night.”

“No, that can’t be right.”

Adonis shrugged. “You had a bullet wound to the neck, a shattered knee, and countless other injuries.” He grabbed a half-full cup of water and drained it before holding it to Xolia. She sent the water into the cup, only a few drops splashing over the side. “I wouldn’tt be surprised if you’re still healing internally.”

“Sel, I’m so fucked.” Xolia grabbed her head, drumming her fingers against her skull. “Uh, did you happen to see Atlas?”

Adonis’s expression hardened. “Why do you ask?”

Of course it had been stupid to ask. Everything she had done since the gala was stupid. It all proved why happiness, even fake happiness, was better than whatever chaos she found herself in now. “We went together,” she said on an exasperated exhale.

“Together?”

Despite the stress and panic flooding through her, Xolia rolled her eyes at his repetition. “He invited me at the gala. Just to relive the old days for a night. It was stupid of me to go.”

Even now, with the years and distance between them, Xolia knew Adonis was thinking of something by the slight furrowing of his brows. He pushed his dark hair out of his face. “I didn’t say that,” he muttered. He cleared his throat.

Before things could get any more awkward between the two of them, Xolia changed course. “Where are we? I need to leave.”

“I’ll drive you home, and you’re more than welcome to shower and change before we go,” Adonis said. The suggestion sounded more like a plea.

Xolia opened her mouth to protest, she needed to be home two days ago. But Adonis must have anticipated what she was going to say. “You’ve already been missing two days, what’s another hour?”

Logic like that couldn’t be argued with. She gave him a curt nod and wandered back to the bedroom, where she grabbed the towel and the clothes—a pair of joggers and a sweatshirt, made of the softest material she had ever felt in her life. On the front of both items wwas twining snakes embroidered in deep red against the black fabric. She knew the logo despite owning nothing from them. The snakes represented Persion, one of the oldest fashion houses in the country. And one of the most expensive. Who is this man?

Clean and dressed in the soft clothes, she made her way back to the living room. Adonis had moved to the couch and sat hunched over with his elbows resting on his knees. Hunger still gnawed at her, but she was more determined to get Adonis to answer all the questions she had prepared in the shower.

Apparently, he had his own questions. “If you wanted to relive the old days, why didn’t you go with Rowan or Marshall? You all looked like great friends at the gala.”

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