Page 33 of This Cruel Fate

Marshall sighed. “Fine.”

They spent the rest of the way home in silence. Marshall slowly slid the key into the old lock of their front door. Xolia squared her shoulders. I’m admitting to what I want. I’m admitting to the truth. She stepped inside.

Marshall was ready for their confrontation. He stood by the dining room table, arms crossed and eyes red. “I know things have been hard, but I didn’t think they were this bad.”

“You didn’t think things were this bad?” she asked, her voice rising. “You don’t even know where I was last weekend. I haven’t worn my ring since you gave it to me. I thought we were done that night I came home. You left.”

“I didn’t,” Marshall argued. “I was upset, but leaving you never crossed my mind. I love you.”

She couldn’t say it back. “Do you? Or do you just love this version of myself I’ve been pretending to be? I tried so hard to be happy, but I hate my life.” The more she said it, the more fully realized it became, the more she saw all those small details in her memory that told her she was unhappy. All those quick fixes and lies she told herself fell apart.

“What do you mean?” The fight was gone from Marshall, all the power had left his voice.

“I was…” Xolia’s ears rang, her heart beat fast. Could she actually admit her darkest feelings to Marshall? “I was happier during the war than I am now.”

Marshall’s jaw dropped. He stared at her; green eyes turned to an endless void. Internally, Xolia screamed at herself. Why did I think saying that was a good idea?

Some other part of her, one that she’d long thought had disappeared, spoke over that scared and tremulous voice. Because you know it’s true. You’ve known it was true since you turned down Peter’s offer of a seat in the Senate. You’ve known it was true since the first date Marshall took you on. You knew it was true when he proposed, and you didn’t care. You aren’t who you say you are.

“Shut up,” Xolia whispered to herself. She was blowing her life up, and for what? Some bald guy told her to? Adonis made her feel special?

It was too much. That pit in her stomach writhed and reached out, searching for water. For blood. She couldn’t control it.

“You need to leave,” she told Marshall, who was staring at her with wide eyes. Concern overshadowed the hurt, but there was no fear. “Go.”

“What the hell is happening to you?” he asked. “Do you need me to call Krista?”

“I need you to get the hell out,” she yelled at him. The surge in her emotions caused her to lash out. Marshall was the closest being to her, and his blood called gloriously to her. She grabbed ahold of it and yanked it toward her, sending Marshall falling to his knees.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she kept repeating as she tore through her mind, searching for all the old breathing exercises and practices that they’d learned as children to control their powers when their emotions went astray.

Finally, she was able to let go of Marshall, who was still on the ground, defenseless against her since she knew he still took his suppressants every day, after a bad emotional outburst at work. When he looked up at her, not only was there the hurt from her words but also betrayal. She had never used her powers on him, it was looked down upon even in the old days. Their powers had been only meant to be used during sparring sessions or real fighting, never amongst their peers.

“I’ll go to Rowan’s,” Marshall said. He offered her no acceptances or comfort. He left her in the living room and was ready to leave within the hour. By the time Marshall left their apartment, Xolia had calmed down enough to sit on the couch. The door slammed behind him, closed with the finality of a relationship ending. What do I do now?

Xolia wallowed in her apartment for four days, varying from self-pity to celebratory moments for taking charge of her own life. The celebratory moments tended to be short-lived, as she realized she had no discernible plan for her life. If she accepted Peter’s offer, they would have to campaign, and she wouldn’t know if she had the job for months. The immediate nothingness of her life sent her into deep spirals that left her unable to get out of bed for hours at a time, no matter what time of day.

Rowan never reached out to her. Not about Marshall showing up at her apartment or Xolia going back to work. Not a text or a call. Not even an angry pounding on the door. Xolia wouldn’t have abandoned Rowan like that if their situations were reversed.

By the fifth day, Xolia dragged herself out of bed and into the shower. Adonis would come to her apartment by noon to take her to Dresden Bay to watch as John Clemont attempted to rally support Risian Allied Party. She wondered if he would use the event to announce his candidacy.

Xolia had spent some of her abundant free time reading up about the presidential-era party that was full of fear-mongering ideology about variants plotting another violent uprising to claim absolute power over humans again. Many of the party’s edicts would see variants under much harsher social restrictions, with them all but reduced to finding work as mercenaries and bodyguards again. She had also dedicated some time to reading through the Rheatha book, finding herself sucked into the long history of variant monarchies and the human consorts they took to keep the bloodlines flowing. Their long lifespans came at the cost of incredibly difficult conception between two variants. There were few, if any, humans who didn’t carry variant blood in their genes. It was all by design of Sel, who wanted their two creations to live in harmony according to each of their unique strengths and weaknesses.

Out of the shower, Xolia braided her hair out of her face and threw on simple clothes to meet with Adonis. Black, as was becoming a preferred choice. She paced around her living room, waiting for Adonis to message her. She didn’t have to choke on the guilt of interacting with him now that she had extricated herself from Marshall.

The knock at the door startled her, she was expecting a message that he was waiting in his car. She opened the door and Adonis stood in the doorway, his hands shoved into the pockets of his suit pants. He peered inside, his eyes moving slowly and missing nothing.

“Come in,” she said, backing away from the door. She was acutely aware of how different their homes were. The view of the city he had compared to the dismal view of her street. She clenched her jaw. What right did he have to invade her space like this?

“Hey, Xo,” he said. “Are you ready?”

His eyes roved over every inch of the apartment, and Xolia was painfully aware of the faded upholstery of the couch. The dining table and its mismatched chairs. Her own simple clothes and the simple bag that carried her toiletries.

“I am, let’s go,” she said, trying to herd him back through the front doorway.

Adonis tsked at her, holding out an arm to bar her from the door.

“Excuse me?” Xolia asked him, glaring up at him.

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