Page 14 of Point of No Return

Tonight, I spend more than an hour on the frigid bathroom tile before I convince myself to go downstairs in search of food. There’s a plate of leftovers from dinner in the fridge- a creamy basil pasta with tangy fingerling potatoes on the side. In the faint light of the massive kitchen, I pull out a stool at the island and eat slowly, walking myself through the mantra I’ve practiced for years now:

I am safe. I am alive. I will be okay. I will not break.

The images of water, the same nightmare played over and over and over again, still hit me, and my food comes back up faster than I’m able to stop it. I only make it to the sink before I’m vomiting it back up again.

My breath comes out in heavy gasps as I struggle to inhale fast enough. The feeling is all too similar to being underwater. Being unable to breathe. Being so starved for air, I inhale water just to fill my lungs.

“You’re not keeping food down,” I startle at Skar’s voice, slamming painfully into the counter. I sigh when I see him in the kitchen entryway, gripping the countertop tightly to steady myself.

“At least you’re observant,” I try to tease, but it comes out more strained than I mean it to. “How long have you been standing there?” I ask instead.

There’s no way he didn’t see what just happened,but I refuse to look him in the eye, focusing on washing my mess down the sink instead.

He leans his hip against the counter in my peripheral, crossing his arms over his chest. “Long enough to see you throw up the leftovers the servants left for me.”

I wince, shutting the water off. He’s wearing the same dark suit as he was earlier, and I realize he probably just got back from work. “Yeah. Sorry,” I clip.

“You’re not keeping food down,” he repeats, and I nearly roll my eyes as I meet his stare across the island.

As if he cares.

“Your food is quite different from home,” I tell him, and it’s not exactly a lie. The first couple of days were definitely an adjustment. Now, the smoky Prevyain flavors I’d been accustomed to feel like a distant memory.

The longer he watches, the more I want to retreat to my room and pretend he didn’t just catch me in such a vulnerable position.

Clearing my throat, I round the opposite side of the island to dig something out of the fridge. “I’ll make something else for you.”

The fridge is clearly organized, and it’s relatively easy to dig out the ingredients for a panini. I can feel his eyes still locked on me as I search the maze of cabinetry for everything I need. Pans, cutting board, knives, plates. There are vegetables in a bowl on the counter beside him, and I’m careful to avoid touching him as I grab what I need and begin chopping.

“You stare,” I say over my shoulder. The knife feels light in my hand. I slice the tomatoes into thin rounds with nimble fingers. Next is the fresh basil and cheese, and I hate that I’m aware of every step he takes to cross the kitchen.

He sits, saying, “You cook.”

“Not all of us have always had servants for absolutely everything.”

I arrange the veggies and herbs on the bread I’ve toasted, topping everything with cheese before grilling the sandwich on the stove. When it’s done and plated, I watch his reaction as I set it in front of him.

A peace offering, of sorts.

“My name is Charlotte Orlova.” He raises a dark brow in question. “I’m twenty-four. I’ve lived in Westos for ten years. I run. I can cook most dishes if I have a recipe… and I cook this. Specifically,” I say with a pointed look at the food. I lean against the counter across from him. “What do I need to know about you?”

Skar cautiously looks between me and the sandwich, as if considering whether I might have secretly poisoned it but ultimately settles on staring at me again. “Very little, really.”

I scoff a laugh, not bothering to hide my eye-roll. “Boy, the girls must love you.”

From what little I know of his past, I’d say it’s a fair assessment. He’s a serial-dater from what I’ve heard. But up until our engagement… There’s been nothing serious.

“That’s my brother’s forte, I’m afraid.”

I nearly laugh at that, but it’s still a guarded answer. I’m still no closer to gaining his trust. So I sigh.

“I’ll be your wife, Skar. I’m well-aware of what this marriage looks like, but that doesn’t change the fact that I need to know you.” He stiffens, and I amend, “Knowaboutyou…”

“You’re right” is all he says, but when he takes a bite of the sandwich, I take it as a sign to push further.

“Why do they call you ‘Skar?’”

He swallows, smirking around another bite. “Itismy name.”

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