Page 30 of This Cruel Fate

“We can really work with this,” Adonis said, his eyes flicking back and forth. Xolia furrowed her brows. Who did he think he was, to already start mapping out her future for her?

She put her hands on the table, startling him out of his thoughts. “We?” There might’ve been a ‘we’ years ago, but things had changed.

“I’m sorry,” Adonis said. He didn’t sound sorry at all. “But variants are still struggling. Peter is failing, and neither Atlas nor the Senate seem too worried about fixing things anytime soon. Other parties are circling. If you don’t care, then you aren’t?—”

“Don’t care?” Xolia interjected. “I care a lot. Or have you forgotten what I gave in the war?”

“But the war’s not over,” Adonis said, exasperation spilling into his tone.

“Fuck you.” She was speaking too loudly for the restaurant, but she couldn’t handle listening to him anymore. She couldn’t handle him talking like he knew her more than she knew herself. “My life ended the day the war did. Nothing has worked out since then.”

Her voice broke. Was she really going to admit it?

“I’m unhappy, Adonis. I haven’t been happy in a long time, and I’m tired of pretending I know what will work.” It was out there, in the world. The words couldn’t be taken back, and there was some underlying freedom in that thought.

She shook her head and looked up at the ceiling, willing tears away. She wouldn’t cry in front of Adonis. Not again.

“Sel, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing anymore.”

“Xo.”

He always said her name so reverently, no one else could make a single syllable carry so much weight. It never sounded right in anyone else’s mouth. But when Adonis said it, it was like she mattered.

A warm hand closed over her left hand, and Xolia looked down. “Let me help you. I can make you happy.”

Heat rose to her cheeks. Why did he have to say things like that?

“Okay,” she whispered. She didn’t trust herself to say anything more. An inkling of guilt wormed its way to the forefront of her mind. This was crossing every line she had told herself she wouldn’t cross when she reached out to Adonis. Marshall would hate her if he knew. That’s why he doesn’t know.

Xolia yanked her hands back, busying herself with going back to eating the soup. Adonis took the rejection in stride and went back to his meal.

“You want to know more about Ris,” he eventually said. “General DuBois is having a small get-together for John Clemont. Come with me. I think we could be good partners. If you take the position, I could help you.”

It would be a good strategic move. If she was going to support Peter, she needed to know his competition. What’s the worst that could happen? “Partners.”

Chapter Fourteen

Sunday rolled around to blustery winds and an overcast sky. She and Marshall had barely talked the second half of the week, but today was church day. Today was pretend they were going to fix their relationship day. Try and forget about Adonis and Peter and politics day.

Xolia sifted through the clothes on her side of the closet. She pulled out jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt. The color would always remind her of her old uniform, and for that reason, she had stayed away from it the past seven years. It called to her now, though. That sense of strength and power she always had derived from her uniform slipped around her as she put her arms and head through the holes of the cloth. Pulling her hair free, she appraised herself in the mirror. Slight bags had made a home under her eyes; she hadn’t been sleeping well. She had agreed to a public outing with Adonis, and she still didn’t know how she would tell Marshall.

She had been texting Adonis throughout the week, and it was stressful enough to hide the messages and pretend she wasn’t talking to anyone in particular with Marshall’s cautious eyes tracking her every move while he was at home. Xolia finished getting ready, wondering how they were supposed to fix anything. She ignored the part of her that yelled at her to end it rather than keep dragging it along.

“Are you ready?” Marshall called through the closed bedroom door. “If we don’t leave now, we’ll be late.”

“Coming,” she called out. She wiggled her left ring finger, the one that was still bereft of the engagement ring she had worn all of a week. The ring was still tucked into her nightstand, hidden at the very bottom.

She stepped out of the sanctuary of her bedroom and smiled at Marshall. He responded in kind. It felt like a small truce between the two of them; things would be okay, even if it was just for a moment.

The First Rheathian Church was consisted of stone and stained-glass windows. While the entire building, from the windows to the double oak doors, was as it had been originally constructed, the property was well maintained. There was not a weed on the grounds.

People filtered into the building. Xolia tensed. They were really doing this.

Marshall stopped beside her, as if he too needed a moment to take in everything around him. “Ready?” he asked.

It was oddly reassuring that he asked with things so muddy between them. She wasn’t ready, and she didn’t want to go in, but she nodded all the same. They crossed the street as soon as there was a break in the traffic. Marshall pushed the doors, which opened silently on well-oiled hinges.

Candles, along with the slightly distorted natural light from the stained-glass windows lit the foyer, leaving the room well lit but also unsettling. It was so far removed from modernity that Xolia half-worried they had stepped backward in time. Paintings of variants in various acts of war decorated the walls. They were brutal, and the strategically placed candles added an additional element of drama to the visceral images.

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