Page 38 of Point of No Return

I try to hide my panic as I look between the two gleaming, silver blades in either of our fathers’ hands. I’ve heard rumors of the macabre Westlan traditions before. And I know my way around a blade. I’ve practically trained with them since I could walk. I know the damage they can do- I have the scars all over my body to prove it.

But the permanence of this… I’m meant to kill him. Pretend to be his wife, fuck him if need be, but bleeding for him…Bleedingwithhim…It feels far too permanent.

“You know what you have to do.”

With every last ounce of will I have, I shakily pull the sheer sleeve of my white dress down to my elbow. Then I look at Skar- my last distraction. The only distraction I have. But he’s not looking at me. His eyes are locked on his father, the look on his face unreadable. And before anyone can stop him, he grabs his father’s blade, yanking the sleeve of his suit down.

“Tradition states-” Tyson declares, but Skar ignores him, looking at me as he bares his hand, and the hilt of the blade, to me.

“She’s not Westlan,” Skar says again. I still can’t read the look on his face, but as I shakily take the blade from him, one thing is clear: He’s trusting me. And he’s asking me to trust him back.

“Do it,” he says, no fear, only confidence in his voice.

And without thinking, I do. I drag the blade across his palm, watching as blood wells before dripping over the altar. I don’t know why I do it, but I hand him the blade next. His gaze is a caress sweeping over me. He smooths his thumb over my palm, the touch warm, before slicing it open. Pain is only an afterthought. We clasp our hands together, the heat of him leeching the cold away.

Tyson and my father are saying something, reciting some kind of ancient prayer as their hands come around ours, red painting our skin. Nothing changes. I expect to feel different- to feel really, truly married. But now I’m just… confused.

“You don’t make sense to me,”he said once. The sentiment isn’t one-sided. One second he hates me, and the next he’s standing up to his father for me. Maybe I read him wrong. Maybe his resentment for his father runs deeply enough to make everything else just not matter.

I don’t really know in what order everything happens next. Our hands are washed, wrapped in thick white bandages, and then we’re tied together at the wrists by Westlan red ribbon.

We return to the reception. We dance. We eat. There’s speeches. More dancing. And when it’s dark outside the glass walls of the venue, there’s even fireworks that illuminate the night sky in blasts of red and gold. The rest of the night remains a blur. When it’s all over, I can’t help the feeling that settles in my gut:

The worst is yet to come.

Chapter Nineteen

Skar

Charlotte and I made it clear we would do what was asked of us. We’d done everything else, for fuck’s sake. And even if I practically started a war with Tyson by defying him in front of Charlotte’s family, I’d still done what was asked of me.

But I’ve been fighting against my instincts all night, wanting to touch her, keep her close to me, to taste her again. I’ve only kissed her twice, and it’s like every detail is branded into me. The veil over her green eyes, her red lips, that smart mouth…

The sendoff was simple enough. Photos and more photos and then we’d finally gotten through the herd of people to the car. We untied the red ribbon around our joined wrists when a driver arrived to take us to the villa.

I was too worked up to sit and let someone else drive us all night. So I all but kicked the driver out of the car while Charlotte gathered the massive heap of her dress into the passenger's seat, and we headed off.

The villa is a good four hours away, and I’m glad when Charlotte doesn’t feel the need to talk. She tries her hardest to stay awake, eyes fluttering as the exhaustion finally hits her within the first twenty minutes. Then she’s out.

I don’t mind the drive. I spend most of it tapping my fingers against the wheel and trying my best to ignore the bandage around my palm.

I know the Westlan tradition well. I just hadn’t expected my father to actually make her go through with it. I was furious when I saw her hesitation. Charlotte didn’t know what was happening. Her own parents hadn’t bothered telling her. That much was clear as day.

And it only angered me more. But I can’t think about it. Not without wanting to hit something. So, I drive and focus on the rumble of the tires on the road.

When the long path to the villa comes into view, I’m tempted to wake Charlotte, but she’s still sleeping soundly, her hands tucked into her chest. She looks so peaceful- so small, the normal furrow in her brow smoothed flat.

She doesn’t stir when the car comes to a stop in front of the house. I climb out, popping her door open only to scoop her into my arms and lift her. She still doesn’t wake, and part of me softens. She hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks.

Her frilly dress is poofy and covered in Westlan ribbon underneath the train, but I manage to carry her past the white picket fence and through the garden to the front porch. I step over the threshold, the house quiet inside.

The faint glow of a lamp at the entryway tells me that the house has been prepared for us, and when I climb the stairs and see that all four of the rooms are ready, I choose the largest for her. The door opens to reveal a cozy king bed with silk sheets, a thick downy comforter, and roses leading a trail from the door to the bed.

I want to roll my eyes as I step inside, but I just brush the curls that have fallen into her eyes, shaking her gently.

“Charlie,” I say, and her eyes flutter open. “We’re here.”

She looks around in a daze, taking everything in before she suddenly realizes she’s in my arms. She jolts, and I set her down with a sigh of fabric.

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