Page 74 of Point of No Return

“Why do you suddenly give a shit?” I spit, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest under me.

When his eyes fall to my hands, I feel the sudden need for distance. I shove away from him, running a hand through my hair as I turn away.

Goddammit.I feel closer and closer to blowing this any second.

“I want to be clear,” he says, and I feel him grab my elbow, tugging me back toward him. “I’ve gotten very good at reading between the lines over the years. I don’t like being threatened.”

Exasperated, I throw my hands up. “When has-”

“She thinks she’s being clever, but I know what she does to you now.” I’m staring at the hard lines of his face, anger and something else- something even hotter- warring in his eyes. “And I don’t like being threatened,” his voice is dark, the words melting over me slowly.

I hate that he knows. I hate that he sees through me. I hate that it almost seems like he cares. It shouldn’t matter what my mother does. It shouldn’t matter because none of this is real. Not really.

So, why does it feel like this?

My words are clipped. “I don’t belong to you. And even if I did, this doesn’t concern you.” I look at him for a long time, trying to decipher the dark look on his face. “Now do you want the tour or not?”

After a few moments of us just looking at each other, neither of us willing to back down, I shake my head. Not exactly giving in, but I don’t bother seeing if he follows as I twist on my heel and yank the door open.

Like hell I’m going to let him ruin this for me.

Two empty bottles of chardonnay and a half-empty bottle of whiskey sit on the bar cart by the time dinner is over. I’ve been steadily nursing the same glass of wine for more than an hour, but I’ve watched my mother down glass after glass after glass.

A lazy smile rests on her face as she twists the stem of her drink. Papa, it seems, has an endless stream of conversation topics up his sleeve, and he continues to prattle on despite the reek of whiskey on his breath. Skar entertains him though I wonder whether the frown on his face is because of our conversation earlier or because the world ceases to amuse him like usual.

Mysteriously, the servants were dismissed before dinner. Now that we’ve long-finished our plates, I’m happy to take the out when conversation veers back toward the funeral.

“Charlotte, we have people for that,” my father slurs ever so slightly but I wave him off as I balance our empty plates across my arms.

“I’ll help,” my mother pops out of her chair too fast, reaching out a hand to catch herself.

Subtle, I want to say, but I reach over Skar for his dishes as my mother follows suit with her own.

I jump when I feel Skar’s hand on my hip, just the shadow of a touch, a reminder that he’s near, but it’s enough to set my skin on fire. I narrow him a look, but he’s still listening intently to something my father is saying as he squeezes.

I step away, trying my best to remain aloof as my mother and I stroll to the servants’ kitchen. A fire is still going in the main fireplace, but the room is vacant- the cook, the servants are all gone.

“Awfully clever of you,” I offer, dumping the pile of dishes in the sink as my mother deposits hers on the counter.

She makes a show of disgust, cringing and lathering her arms in soap under a warm stream of water. “Skar seems keen on keeping you all to himself, hmph? I take that as a good sign,” she dries her hands on a nearby tea towel.

“He knows you’re trying to get me alone.”

Her purple lips purse. “Smart lad.” She gathers my arms clumsily, squeezing. “Listen, Lottie. There’s been a change in plans.”

“A technicality in the will or something. Skar told me.”

Her brown eyes blur into something of suspicion. “Yes. The house, most of the property that was in Tyson’s name all belong to Skar. And he’s leaving it to Aleks- not you or your father.”

The plan originally was to strip the Benenatis of every last thing they had, but it relied on the fact that my father had some stake in Viserion and Omenin. If we had an inch, we could take a mile. And when that happened, there wasn’t a single thing anyone could do to stop us.

What did a few technicalities matter?

“Is there a reason he overlooked you? He doesn’t trust you?” her hands move to my face, petting my cheeks softly. I try not to stiffen at the subtle bite of her words. There’s no right answer here- no answer that will soothe her worries. “You will tie up your loose ends, won’t you Lottie?”

“I’ll do what needs to be done," I say, and after a moment, I add: "I found something. In his office." I carefully watch for her reaction.

It's hard to believe that the last time I thought about the information was just after Tyson's death. The Peacock editions in Skar's bedroom seemed innocent enough, but buried within one of the pages, I found a death certificate. His mother's. And since then, I'd done some digging around of my own.

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