Page 110 of Villainous Fate

“I know, Tails. Happy birthday. We will figure out the new signing dates, even if we have to come back for it,” I say, trying to figure out if I should have said that when I arrived. I didn’t miss her birthday. It was the last time I’d talked to her.

She sounded so different then.

Her head shakes back and forth slowly, and pain flashes across her expression.

“No, Deacon. I’m eighteen.” Her words are punctuated and slow as if she is trying to give me a clue that I’m not seeing, so I wait. “The Fates, Deacon,” she says at last, and it hits me as tears fill her eyes and overflow onto her cheeks without a sound.

We aren’t Mates.

A pang hits my heart at that realization before relief floods my system, and I soften my expression.

“Tails, is that what this is about? I don’t care about that. It doesn’t matter to me who some supernatural force decides I should love. I choose you. We always knew this was a possibility. You don’t honestly think this changes anything for me, do you?” I ask, hoping to reassure her, wanting to tip her chin back up so she will look at me.

Why won’t she look at me?

Hasn’t she missed me all these months? I can’t keep my eyes off her, yet she seems to want to avoid looking at me altogether.

“No, I knew it wouldn’t change anything for you.”

“Then, I don’t understand. I know you’ve always believed in them—hell, they helped me get through the retreat—but they aren’t the chess masters of our lives. We get to choose, too. Who knows? Maybe your Mate was one of the wolves that didn’t survive the trials, or they live on another continent,” I say, trying to ease her worry.

“They weren’t,” she whispers, confusing me.

“How do you know? They could be.” I say, getting frustrated at her inability to move past this.

“No. They can’t,” she says, her voice louder now, her chin quivering.

“Tails…?”

“I found my Mate,” she cries out, and my heart stops beating. My lungs stop taking in air.

No.

“You what?” I say, my voice not my own, as my defenses lock into place. My body leaning back in the seat, pulling away from her.

Her tears fall harder from her eyes, and her expression is pained.

“The Fates… they revealed my Mate.”

“When?”

“My birthday,” she says, barely getting the words out. Her hands grip the apron with everything she has, her knuckles turning white.

Her birthday.

We spoke on her birthday, and she didn’t say anything. I try to remember the conversation, her voice, and the words she said.

Nothing. She didn’t say anything about it.

My eyes scan her shoulders, trying to see through the fabric covering them, searching to see if I’m too late. I have to physically bite my cheek to keep from asking the questions I want to ask her because I can’t vocalize the words. The answers could break me.

How could you keep this from me? Did you reject him? Have you Mated? Do you still love me? Am I still your future? Are you still mine?

Pain. Overwhelming and debilitating fills every piece of me until I’m suffocating. I can feel myself fighting to breathe, to keep my heart beating, to hold onto the sliver of light that remains.

It’s not over.

The thought allows me to grip onto the fragile hope floating inside. I pull my eyes from her, dropping my gaze to the table while I sort through the feelings. She sobs quietly, allowing me to process her words without interrupting, and I would be grateful if I didn’t want more words from her.

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