Page 100 of Arrow

The last trickle of champagne coated my tongue. I savored that too—the strange peace of knowing this was just attrition.

Who starved out the other first won.

Arrow turned to face me. His eyes spent a millisecond scanning my face—the arch of my cheek, and the blue of my eyes. Something unguarded flicked across his features. Pride, maybe. Or the hunger of a collector who’d just acquired the one thing the city couldn’t replicate.

Atlas and Orion peeled off to do whatever mafia kings did at these things, and I caught Arrow watching me with a look I’d never seen on his face. It felt like it was a sort of allergic wonder, as if he couldn’t believe I’d absorbed every blow and stood taller for it.

A server drifted past with a tray of champagne. Grabbing another glass, I downed half in one swallow. The bubbles burned my throat, but the sensation was welcome—anything to dull the edge of knowing he was right about me. That I was exactly as corruptible as he’d gambled.

“Pace yourself,” Arrow murmured against my ear. “You need to be coherent for the toast.”

“Toast?” Alarm rose in my chest as I turned to him. “What toast?”

His smile was stunning, and whether it was the champagne warming my veins or something else, I couldn’t help but stare.

“Did you think we were just here to be seen? This is our official engagement party, Harlowe. Tradition dictates a toast.”

Before I could protest, the lights dimmed, and a spotlight found us in the center of the room. The crowd quieted, faces turning toward us with hungry anticipation. Arrow’s hand slid from my back to grip mine, fingers interlacing in a show of intimacy that made my skin crawl.

A man in a tuxedo appeared with a microphone, tapping it twice before speaking.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention, please. It is my great honor to invite Mr. Arrow Romanov to say a few words about his engagement to Miss Harlowe Virelli.”

Polite applause erupted as Arrow led me to a small platform at the far end of the room. I felt like I was walking to my execution. My heart hammered against my ribs as cameras flashed from every direction, capturing what would surely be tomorrow’s front-page news.

Arrow took the microphone with the ease of a man who’d been commanding attention his entire life. He pulled me closer to his side, his arm a steel band around my waist.

“Thank you all for coming tonight.” His voice carried effortlessly across the hushed room. “For those who know our families’ history, this union may come as a surprise.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the crowd.

Understatement of the year.

“But sometimes the most unexpected alliances prove to be the strongest.” His gaze found my father in the crowd. “Harlowe Virelli represents everything that makes her family formidable—beauty, intelligence, and an unbreakable will.”

Keeping my face neutral took effort, even as his words twisted something inside me. The way he described me made me sound like a prized racehorse.

“Our engagement marks the beginning of a new era for both our families.” His thumb traced small circles against my hip, visible only to me. “And for this city.”

The crowd absorbed his words, all those faces upturned like flowers toward a toxic sun. His speech was perfect—just the right blend of dominance, possession, and political maneuvering.

“In Harlowe,” Arrow continued, “I’ve found not just a bride, but a worthy opponent.” His fingers dug into the hollow below my ribs. “And those who know me understand there is no higher compliment.”

A knowing chuckle rippled through the audience. I scanned their faces, cataloguing enemies and allies, wondering which ones would toast our union tonight, only to plot our downfall tomorrow.

“I ask you to raise your glasses.” Arrow lifted his champagne flute. “To Harlowe Virelli, soon to be Romanov. May our enemies tremble at the sound of our united names.”

The crowd echoed the sentiment, a sea of crystal catching light as they raised their glasses. Arrow turned to me then, eyes intense. Leaning in, his lips barely brushed against my ear. “Now, kiss me,” he whispered, voice for me alone. “Show them who owns you.”

Stiffening, I registered the blinding spotlight, the hundreds of eyes watching our every move. Refusal meant weakness. Compliance meant surrender.

Turning my face to his, my lips curving into a cold smile. “I’d rather die,” I whispered back.

His eyes flashed with amusement. “No, you wouldn’t.”

Before I could brace myself, he closed the distance. One palm cupped the back of my skull, thumb pressing into the hollow behind my ear, while his other arm banded across my lower back, hauling me flush against him. The heat of his body seared through the thin silk of my dress. Then, his mouth was on mine—not a request, but a conquest. A public claiming.

The kiss was brutal. His lips moved against mine with the kind of confidence that came from never being told no—from always taking exactly what he wanted. When I tried to keep my mouth closed, to maintain some shred of dignity, he bit my lower lip—not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to make me gasp. The moment my lips parted, his tongue swept inside, tasting, demanding, owning.