Page 59 of This Cruel Fate

“You don’t mean that,” Xolia scoffed. “You wanted a certain idea of me. I can’t pretend that I didn’t want that too. It just wasn’t real.”

A broken gasp of breath escaped Marshall. “Was any of it real?”

Xolia thought back to the twilight years after the war had ended. How desperate they all were to fit themselves into the neat little boxes of freedom they had fought for. She thought of how desperate she had been to make it work and how no matter how hard she’d begged and tried, there’d were always been cracks in the façade. Always some insurmountable feeling she hadn’t been able to overcome. “We had real moments. I thought I could wish it to be real enough that it would be.” Tears pooled at the bottoms of her eyes. “Sel, Marshall, for so long after the war, I was alone. You didn’t spend time in solitary, but I did. So when Rowan and you came back into my life, it was a lifeline. It’s just one that I can’t hold onto anymore.”

“Why couldn’t you tell me?”

Xolia wanted to laugh. “You were so perfect. Both of you were. I don’t even know if you still think about the war, but the war is who I am. I can’t not be myself anymore. I am who I’ve always been. I’m the Xolia you knew before the war, and during the war. Why should I pretend to be anything else?”

“This isn’t you!” Marshall exclaimed. “Before the war ended, yes, but after you got therapy, you got better. Is this because of Silas dying? You don’t have to be who he wanted you to be. He can’t control you. You’re allowed to change.”

“Maybe I don’t want to.” Sel, he was infuriating. This was who she was at the core of her being. This was who she needed to be to help Peter, to help Adonis. This was who she needed to embrace to embody the Selermine. If she’d ignored who she was, she’d still be pushing pens at the bureau.

Marshall leveled her with a cold stare. While Xolia knew she had changed on some level, there hadn’t been a good baseline for comparison. This was one, however. Good, sweet Marshall who always looked at her with stars in his eyes was completely removed from the disappointment they now carried.

“I can’t afford the apartment on my own, and I know you can’t either,” Marshall said, turning his glassy eyes away from her. “I’ll call to have the lease broken. When can you get everything moved out?”

“Give me a week.” There wasn’t much she’d have to move out. Her engagement ring was still in her nightstand drawer. Photos of her and Marshall were still on the walls in their frames. “Are you moving in with Rowan?”

Marshall nodded. “Where will you stay?”

She hesitated. There was no way this would end well in an otherwise civil meeting. “I’m staying in Juthian Heights.”

Marshall’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. “How?”

Xolia suspected he would regret asking the question when he learned the answer. Still. . .“I’m staying with Adonis.”

He choked on a strangled laugh. “Right.”

The satisfaction Xolia thought she would’ve gotten from his discomfort was strangely and frustratingly absent. They took a few more aimless steps deeper into the park. “It’s not—” she started, not really knowing why she spoke or what the next word leaving her mouth would be. “He’s just helping me as a friend.” Idiot. When would she stop feeling this way? She was supposed to be meeting with Bridget soon, setting up public appearances and getting ready for the VC announcement, but she couldn’t stop herself from dealing with this. A broken heart and the fallout that ensued. It was something so normal, something that transcended humanity or being a variant. Something that could accost anyone regardless of job or class. It was frustratingly humbling, and she hated the way that still having to deal with this made her feel lacking for the opportunity before her. Silas had never once been out of control and she was spinning blindly, waiting to catch something that made sense.

“Right, and did you sleep with him ‘as a friend’?” Marshall asked. Even back in the barracks during the war, when Xolia and Adonis had started dating, Marshall had hated him. Maybe it was because, even then, the two of them couldn’t have been more different if they’d tried.

“Marshall,” she said, unwilling to provide any further answer, though that itself was an answer.

Marshall shook his head. “I wanted to be good enough for you, Xolia. Every therapy session, every schooling session in rehab, I thought of how you and Silas made it happen. If you hadn’t led the war, I’d still be babysitting politicians. When Rowan reintroduced us, I swore it was fate. But I don’t think I’m not good enough for you anymore. You’re not good enough for me. Goodbye, Xolia.”

He turned and walked away, his frame slowly shrinking against the backdrop of the skyscrapers. Xolia remained rooted to the spot, something ugly unfurling in her gut. Bile rose to her throat, burning the whole way up. She hated feeling this way. She hadn’t even been strong enough to tell him her news. She shouldn’t feel this way, it was weakness and would need to be exorcised before she took her place by Peter’s side.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Xolia didn’t try to cut off her hand for the rest of the week. She fully devoted herself to moving what little she owned into Adonis’s guest bedroom and working with Peter and Bridget. While the forefront of FAR’s policies always revolved around variant equality, they were also a party dedicated to strengthening the country’s middle class. Xolia grimaced slightly when she saw all the proposals for heavier taxes on the country’s elite, that would be a hard sell to Adonis. Though she did bring up the fact that the Variant Service Act was still in effect and demanded to be at the forefront of removing the act from law.

Friday morning found Xolia alone in Adonis’s apartment, her schedule for the day was empty as she needed to prepare for the fights. She needed to prepare for Helen. Xolia pushed away her breakfast, something about knowing she needed to kill unsettled Xolia, and it took away her appetite.

Without breakfast to take up her time, she stared at the knife block on the counter. Perhaps if she could jump-start these abilities, she’d be more confident for the fights. Licking her lips, she grabbed a butcher knife, the edge sharp and glinting under the lights. Taking a deep breath, Xolia spread out her left palm on the counter, the marble cold under her skin.

Maybe this is the Selermine trial, she thought, though she didn’t really think the idea had much merit. Sel had sacrificed much more than a hand. Still, if she could do this one thing, then she would be more sure about the trial. It loomed over her every thought, and the days kept disappearing with frightening speed.

“Just do it,” Xolia begged herself. Fear settled in her stomach, and she held her right arm aloft. Try as she might, she just wasn’t strong enough to commit. If Adonis could do it, you can do it.

Xolia tried to dredge up any childhood competition between them that would give her the ambition to cut off her hand—because she feared the first few attempts would result in a missing hand. She wasn’t that naïve as to pretend she could master such an archaic use of power on the first try, though she hoped it would be enough to stop the decpaitation.

Sweat slipped down her forehead to her nose before splattering on the marble countertop. Come on. She needed this. Surely on the campaign trail there would be a need to protect herself or Peter, and it wasn’t like they would be speaking around large amounts of water. Xolia had never even left Atalia, except for the barracks and her brief visit to Dresden Bay, what was she supposed to expect from the rest of the country?

Sure, Peter had his bodyguards, and she would have hers soon enough because Peter didn’t believe her strong enough to defend herself, but maybe she could show him just how capable—she screamed.

Blood spattered everywhere, the sight almost comical if she hadn’t been in so much pain. Her fingers, which had been splayed out straight, were now limp and bent. Her arm ended in a nub, blood gushing from the wound.

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