Page 9 of This Cruel Fate

“To blow off some tension,” he elaborated. He ran a hand through his short hair, and Xolia thought she could still see a slight tremble.

“That explains nothing.” Xolia leaned away from him.

He rolled his eyes at her. “Did you know there’s an organization that runs fights? Like the same kind we used to run for training?”

“There’s no way that’s legal.”

“Of course it’s not,” Atlas snorted. “But you can’t deny that nothing else compares to sparring.”

His words were absurd. Juvenile. “Is this some sort of trick?”

“How is it a trick if I’m going to ask you to come with me?” Atlas asked. “I would also be doing something illegal.”

“Look, I don’t know what restrictions you’re under, but I just got my suppressant checks waived. I’m not jeopardizing that, and I’m not stressed. My life is going exactly how I want it.” She laughed in a slightly crazed way at the end. Nothing was how she wanted it, but nothing would ever drive her to willingly do anything with Atlas.

Atlas leaned into her, closing the space she kept putting between them. “You don’t want to go for old times’ sake? Afraid I’ll still beat you?” he taunted.

It was laughable, really, if he thought that would be enough to goad her into changing her mind. “I’m not falling for this, and I don’t know if this is some weird way to get back at Peter for changing the speech order, but that wasn’t my call. I don’t want anything to do with you.”

Finished with the ultimately pointless conversation, Xolia made her way back to the door. Atlas yelled after her, “You’re so boring now, Xo. You used to be interesting at least.”

Xolia froze. Her breaths came out heavy, and that pit in her stomach that controlled her powers yearned for release. How she longed to give in, to drag him to his knees. I hate—No. I don’t. She clenched her fists so tight that her nails dug into the base of her palms. “Don’t fucking call me that.” She went inside.

With dinner and the lackluster speeches over, people were back to milling about the open half of the room. She shouldered her way past politicians and other notable guests without so much as an apology. When she found Marshall, she stomped up to him and grabbed his elbow. “I want to go home.”

“Xolia,” Rowan exclaimed, her face rosy and smiling. When Xolia faced her, the smile dropped. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she snapped. She leaned in close to Marshall. “We need to leave.”

“Okay, just give me a minute,” Marshall said, caressing the back of her hand with his thumb. Rather than being a comfort, it was just pressure. She pulled her hand out from under his. “Peter recovered the evening after you ran. I was going to go after you, but everyone saw Atlas follow you.”

“Is Peter upset?”

“He just announced his candidacy, and neither his vice chancellor nor his favorite civilian couldn’t even fill their times,” Marshall said. “He might be a little upset.”

Of course he would be upset with her, it was childish for her to have thought anything else. Xolia sighed. “Thanks.”

“I’m back,” announced an entirely too-cheery voice—one that Xolia didn’t immediately recognize.

Xolia turned to see a woman with mousy brown hair pulled back into a low bun. Her dress was gray, utterly devoid of shape and style. And because she wore no makeup or jewelry, nor anything else to hide away the memory of the past, Xolia knew exactly who she was looking at. Semele. The overly zealous girl she and Marshall and Rowan had spent countless hours making fun of in the past. Semele had the unfortunate habit of believing everyone and everything, with her entire soul. Nothing was too outlandish; no matter how many times she had been tricked by her fellow variants, she had kept on believing the next person in line.

Semele handed a glass to Marshall, who accepted with an apologetic glance towards Xolia. “Xolia, it’s so good to see you. Marshall, Rowan, and I were just catching up.”

“Likewise,” Xolia responded, voice monotone. “Anyway, Marshall and I have to head out.”

“Why?” Rowan asked, her brows furrowed and her nose scrunched.

“We’ll stay for a few minutes longer, right, Xolia?” Marshall levied her with a pleading look.

Xolia crossed her arms over her chest. “Just a few minutes.”

“What are you wearing anyway?” Marshall asked, sipping from his drink.

Xolia hesitated. Marshall didn’t like Adonis, and while Xolia wasn’t sure how she felt about him, it was different. Everyone looked at her, waiting with bated breath. Just like at dinner, though this time her words were arguably more devastating.

“I ran into Adonis.” She opened the jacket up to reveal the stain. “Or, he ran into me.”

As she expected, Marshall clammed up. The slight popping of his jaw was evidence enough of his discomfort. Either unaware or determined to keep the mood light, Rowan interjected, “Sel, I haven’t thought of Adonis in forever.”

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