Page 6 of Point of No Return

Josie’s hands become a knot behind her back. “Yes, sir.”

As if she’d come openly brandishing anything. If she’s armed, we sure as hell won’t know about it.

Tyson's grin still screams victory. “See, son? You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“General?” Josie interjects, and his eyes darken. “If I may… I don’t think anyone would be stupid enough to be packing heat, knowing we’d look. She’ll have contact with her family until the wedding. And plenty of opportunities to divulge information before then.”

“I’m counting on it.” He settles back into his seat, hands shaking as he sets them over his lap. “She hasn’t suspected anything about you?”

“Not that I can tell, no.”

That’s not much to go on.

I narrow Josie a glance, but like the perfect soldier, she’s still looking at him. I can’t exactly blame her. “When is the wedding?” I ask instead.

He answers: “Three months. You have until then to figure out how to ensure her cooperation.”

“And why would I do that?” I ask, leaning forward.

“Duty. Or whatever you want to call it.” He and I both know that word hardly means shit anymore. Tyson chuckles again, and this time, I can’t stop the glare that takes form on my face. “Let’s hope for your family’s sake that you learn to do the right thing one of these days.”

Chapter Four

Charlotte

It’s always been clear who my enemy is. My parents made sure of that. More often than not, the same men that lie, steal, and cheat- that take what they want without remorse- are the same people that have had it out for my family since the beginning. Men like Tyson and Aleks and Skar… who have never had to worry about the cost of surviving… They’ve never had to consider the things you might do to make people forget where you came from.

I’ve spent my entire life learning what it takes to change your circumstances. If it wasn’t beaten into me, it was trained- through hours of brutal combat or practiced etiquette. My parents trained me for the worst.

The war between Westos and Prevya was short-lived but brutal… Most of my people haven’t lived to tell the tale. We’re more likely to be sold off now. But the protections that being revered and cherished provide are few. An animal in a cage is still a prisoner whether the cage is steel or silver.

I’ve not yet decided what kind of prison Viserion is. The past few days, I’ve been free to wander the grounds as I please. There are no guards from what I can tell, but Josie, my supposed lady’s maid, is always close by.

My fiancé is mostly absent, though I largely prefer it. Occasionally Aleks will join me for a walk of the grounds in the mornings. He’s outgoing and flirtatious from what I can tell, and our walks have given me the chance to memorize the house.

I’ve been careful to hide the map I’ve slowly drawn out. To anyone else, it’s a nonsensical drawing of circles, X’s, and squares, but I’ve roughly been able to sketch which windows and doors will make for a quick getaway. I’ll have to find a way to sneak it to my mother. Contact with my family is minimal- mainly limited since any way to contact them was confiscated on the trip here. I expected as such. My mother and I will likely talk tonight at the Midsummer’s gala.

Servants buzz around, arms heavy with decor for the gala. I’ve spent the better part of the day being trimmed and plucked only to be adorned in the finest clothes money can buy. I half-expect them to pair gloves with the white ensemble I’m being forced to wear. Most social events require that I cover the ink scrawled across my skin, but my arms remain bare. Even Josie has yet to cover her markings.

My sleeveless white dress is paired with an obnoxious golden crown. Pinned in place with flowers of varying garish, the crown’s gilded spokes flare outwards like that of a sun’s rays. The golden cuffs around my forearms match the delicate beaded garter that peeks out from beneath the slit in the dress’s skirt.

All-in-all, I look like a high-end call girl, but I guess that’s why they didn’t bother hiding the tattoos in the first place. The dark whorls are just as much of a statement as the rest of it.

“How long have you had them?” Josie asks from behind me.

We usually keep to ourselves- it’s easier since she can’t answer most of my questions anyways- but she’s attempted conversation a few times. She motions to my wrists, the tattoos practically glowing in the evening light.

Prevyain women get their first tattoos after their menarche. Prevyain men get theirs after their first kill. Despite Prevya’s demise, the tattoos are a tradition that remains.

“I was thirteen,” I answer, adjusting my garters in the mirror before looking at her.

She has this thoughtful look on her face, and something like pity flashes in her eye. “That’s young,” she tells me. “I was sixteen.”

“Is everyone here going to ask about my tattoos or are you just attempting conversation? I’d like to be prepared now if so.”

A corner of her mouth quirks up, and I take a moment to assess her again. Her brown hair is pulled back into a neat knot, and despite her best attempt to hide it, she carries herself more like a soldier than a lady’s maid. Her movements are careful, calculated, and her legs are always shoulder-length apart, arms behind her back. Her smile fades the longer I stare.

“I figured if we’re going to spend the next few years together, we might as well get to know each other.”

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