Page 20 of Point of No Return

She quirks a brow. “Cyanide?”

“Thallium,” I say, pulling on the chain hanging down my chest to reveal the thin golden pendant.

Enough pressure on its golden surface and the chamber’s contents would release through the miniscule blade that retracts. One of the many toys I brought with me. One I’m glad I wore last night.

The look of satisfaction on her face is short-lived, and it quickly sours, her lips puckering again. Her hands swipe my sweat-slick hair away from my face. “Make up with your fiancé, dear,” she pats my cheek, and I ease away from the touch.

“Thank you. I know what I’m doing.” It’s an effort for me to stand and grab a change of clothes from the closet.

A long shower sounds perfect right now. And maybe a god damn restful night of sleep too.

“Don’t get the stitches wet for at least forty-eight hours,”the doctor told me.Screw the doctor’s orders.

“I’ll see you at lunch this week.”

I don’t wait for her reply before I bar myself in the bathroom and strip off my clothes one-handed. The stone of the shower is cold against my skin, and I relish sitting beneath the warm spray. Letting it fall over my scalp and back, I let it wash away the tiredness and sweat. And I don’t get out until long after I know Eva is gone.

Josie practically babies me. She carries everything, helps me dress, even attempts to feed me. I’m sick of it, but for the most part, I go along with it. Mostly to throw off any suspicion, but it doesn’t hurt to rest my arm either.

After another sleepless night outside my door, Skar disappears into work again, and I rarely see him throughout the week except in the evenings when the doctor comes by to redress the wound. Not that I really need help with that either, but playing the part of the damsel in distress is all part of the ruse.

It’s about six days before the stitches dissolve, and I’m deemed capable of moving around on my own. I spend most of my time with Liv planning arbitrary wedding details. After another lunch to finalize the rehearsal and such, I’m exhausted, but ultimately, I’m left with finishing the seating chart as homework.

I work on it after dinner, sitting at the kitchen island after the servants have retired for the evening. Half the names on the list are people I’ve never met before. A few I know by association. Some, I’m sure, are coming purely at my fiancé’s request, and the others are pretenders who swear the season’s fealty to whoever’s young, rich, and interesting.

I’m not surprised when Skar breezes through the door at nearly midnight. With a dozen papers spread out across the counter, the place looks like a madhouse, but I merely nod my greeting before continuing.

His usual blazer and tie are gone, leaving only his black slacks and white shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looks damn good wearing a suit- his tattooed muscles clearly defined- and I’m willing to bet he knows it too. But I don’t give him the satisfaction of staring. I’m just hyper aware of his presence as he grabs his plate from the fridge and warms it.

“Your shoulder is better,” he says, taking a seat across from me.

I brush past the comment. “Do you think Diana Rema will keep her hands to herself if I seat her next to Keith Sutherland?”

He seems to consider the question for a moment, lifting his chin with a newfound understanding at my mess. “Sit them wherever you want.”

I scoff a laugh, deciding against the pairing in favor of separating them. I’ll truly be doing this without any of his input whatsoever.

Fine by me.

Gathering my papers and stacking them neatly with my good arm, I push back my chair and stand.

“Sit down, Charlotte.”

“There you go bossing me around again.” I meet his eye with a raised brow. “I have other ways I’d like to spend my evening.”

“How many Prevyains are in Westos?” he asks abruptly. I blink in surprise, but his face remains passive, carefully blank. After what happened at the races, after my mother admitting that she deliberately sent someone after the Benenatis, I’m not expecting the question.

But if he somehow caught on…

I answer truthfully: “I don’t know.”

His eyes turn glacial for a moment, still assessing before he slowly nods and stands. Skar strolls toward me, motioning to the stack of papers in my arm. I begrudgingly hand them over, watching as he fingers through them, eyes roaming over the pages.

“Sit Keith with Diana. He’s too proud to give in to her.” Skar’s fingers brush mine as he hands the pages back before glancing at my shoulder again.

I sigh, pulling the strap of my dress to the side and revealing it to him. Despite the stitching, the scar is likely to be gangly. The blade sliced nearly from my collarbone to the outside of my arm, and it’s still swollen and red.

“You’re staring again,” I explain before pulling my hair back to show him fully.

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