Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Emilia
We don’t argue.
We’re both too tired.
Instead, we just stare at one another, and somehow, the silence feels louder than if we were screaming. His jaw is tighter than ever, and my chest heaves, our eyes locked. His lips purse, then part, like he’s trying to search for what to say.
“I didn’t kiss her,” he says finally, voice quiet. I hold his gaze. There’s something there… Regret. Anguish. Or maybe, desperation.
“I don’t care,” I manage to say. I wish I meant it.
The look in his eyes—the guilt—makes me feel everything I shouldn’t. Anger, mostly. Because he’s either the biggest hypocrite I’ve ever met, or this truly was a misunderstanding.
I want nothing more than to believe it’s the second.
Tearing my eyes from his, I grip the bannister, fingers trembling, and force myself up the stairs to bed.
Waking the next morning, I turn over, grimacing at the sun blaring through the thin, dreary curtains. Slowly getting up, I reach over and yank them open, smiling as the morning light caresses my face.
I pull a low-cut black vest top from my wardrobe, before tugging on a pair of sky-blue jeans. I’m halfway through brushing my hair when what happened last night slams into me. The brush drops from my hand, and my eyes drift to the door.
It’s only six… but is Zac still here? Or did he flee last night? Run straight to his friends? Fuck. These State orchestrated marriages mess with your head, that’s for sure.
Grabbing a hair tie, I quickly sweep my hair up. Come on, Emilia. There’s no point stewing up here… It’s time to face him.
There’s a ninety-five percent chance he’s already gone, anyway.
Slowly, I descend the stairs, heart hammering against my rib cage.
Reaching the bottom, I glance around.
He’s gone.
A tangle of warring emotions flood through me—relief, disappointment, disbelief and a sarcastic voice screaming ‘of course.’
Walking into the kitchen, I pull the cereal from the cupboard and pour myself a bowl before adding milk. Slouching at the table, I start my breakfast, glancing up at the clock.
There’s fifteen minutes until I have to leave—
The back door slams against the wall as it whips open. I jump, dropping my spoon. Milk and cereal fly everywhere as my gaze locks onto the intruder, sunlight pouring in around them.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I snap. My eyes snap from Zac, back to the mess I’ve made.
“Taking the bin out,” he mutters, shutting the door behind him. I jump up, grabbing a cloth to wipe the table whilst Zac eyes the mess. “Did you leave any cereal for me?”
“I didn’t even know you were still here,” I mutter, chucking the cloth into the sink and dropping into my chair. I shovel another spoonful into my mouth.
“That’s fine. I’ll have toast,” he says.
My brow lifts at the answer. The complacency… the surrender. It’s a completely different Zac. I frown as he shoves two slices of bread beneath the grill. I barely know anything about him; he’s still almost entirely a mystery despite the fact that we’ve been married for over two weeks.
He says he didn’t initiate the kiss with Kayla. She was hardly in her right mind, and I highly doubt he needs to choose a random girl at a party in the Married Sector just to get his rocks off—he probably has ways of doing that that are far less dangerous.
He grabs a plate, and the jam, scooping some out with a knife.
“Last night…” I trail off, looking back at my cereal. “Were you honestly pushing her away?”
“Yeah,” Zac answers without a beat.
“Why?”
“What kind of a question is that? Do you even remember where we were? A party, Emilia. A fucking party. Surrounded by people. People who could report me. Get me—us—killed.”
“I… I know,” I mutter before teasingly adding, “You’re discreet.”
He scoffs. “Anyway, she was a mess. Drunk girls who are about to pass out?” He leans against the counter, staring at me. “Not my type. Her?” He shakes his head. “Even if she were sober, still not my type.”
Something twists in my chest. The words aren’t meant to sting, but they do—sharp and uninvited. I force out a small, nonchalant breath, hoping it hides the way my stomach drops.
“Noted,” I murmur, my fingers tightening around the bowl. He pulls his toast out from under the grill, dropping the slices to the plate and slathering jam across the top. His words linger, echoing around my skull.
Not. His. Type.
Over, and over, catching on wounds I thought had healed long ago. Rayden could never decide between me and Kayla, the two tall blonde girls with blue eyes and lightly tanned skin.
But Kayla isn’t Zac’s type. I swallow, pretending to study the wall, pretending I don’t care, pretending his words haven’t just lodged themselves somewhere deep.
“She a friend of yours?” Zac asks.
“Hardly,” I say. “I know her from before the war. She got some… bad news yesterday.” I dig my spoon into the bowl, scooping more cereal and crunching slowly. “What’s your favourite colour?” I practically freeze at the absurdity of the question as it spills from my lips.
He stops chewing. “Colour?” Zac stares at me, brow cocked, and I shrug. “Red.”
“Red?”
“It stands out. Bright. Alive.” He drops his plate into the sink. “Plus, it’s the colour the Enforcers bleed.”
I choke on my cereal, coughing as the spoon clatters to the bowl.
“Very funny,” I manage. “I don’t reckon they bleed, though.”
He tilts his head at me.
“They’re fucking robots. Robots can’t bleed. You just have to find their power button.” I hope, anyway. It’s the only explanation that justifies their actions. Zac laughs, pushing off the counter to collect my empty bowl. “I thought your favourite colour was black,” I say.
“Why?”
“Look at the state of you.” I gesture to his black jeans. His black top. The leather jacket on the back of the chair.
“Shouldn’t you be getting to work?” he asks, the bowl clattering, clean, onto the draining board.
Right. Guess that conversation’s over. My lips purse, and I stand, inching around the table. In the living room, I gather my bag, hooking the strap over my shoulder, and making my way to the front door.
“Emilia?” I glance back at him and a small smile twitches the edges of his lips, tea towel in his hands. “Don’t judge a book by its cover,” he says.
And despite it all, I smile back. “My favourite colour is red, too,” I say, before ducking out of the house and heading to work.