Page 101 of Arrow

Don’t respond. Don’t give him anything.

But my body was a goddamn traitor. Heat pooled low in my belly as his tongue stroked against mine, and his hand tightened in my hair, angling my head exactly where he wanted it. He tasted like champagne. My pulse spiked and my knees weakened. The scent of him—cedar and smoke—wrapped around me until I couldn’t think. Or breathe. I couldn’t even fucking remember why I was supposed to hate this.

Cameras flashed like lightning, turning the moment into a strobe-lit fever dream. Hundreds of eyes watched us, archiving every angle of my submission, and every second of his dominance.

My hand found his lapel, gripping the fine wool as if it were the only thing keeping me upright. My other hand slid up the hard plane of his chest to cup his jaw, feeling the scratch of stubble against my palm, the flex of muscle when he deepened the kiss.

When he finally tore his mouth from mine, we were both breathing hard. His pupils were blown wide, silver eyes nearly black with want, triumph gleaming in their arctic depths. My lips were bruised, while his were slick and red, smeared with my lip stain.

The ballroom erupted. Not just in polite applause, but roars, whistles, and catcalls. The hungry approval that came from watching something obscene. The sound reminded me where we were, what we’d just done, and how many people had witnessed my complete and utter capitulation.

Arrow’s eyes held hunger, yes. Possession, absolutely. But also, surprise. He hadn’t expected me to kiss him back like I was drowning and he was air.

He hadn’t expected to lose control himself.

His thumb traced my swollen bottom lip, and when he spoke, his voice was wrecked. “Beautiful performance.”

I smiled sweetly. “I’ve had practice pretending to enjoy things.”

His laugh was genuine, if cold. “For a moment there, I almost believed you wanted me.”

“Keep dreaming.”

Ignoring the tingling sensation his kiss had left on my lips proved harder than expected.

The crowd surged around us as we stepped off the platform; everyone was eager to congratulate the happy couple. Women who’d never spoken two words to me gushed over my dress, while men clapped Arrow on the back.

Across the room, my father’s eyes locked with mine. Regret flickered there, or was it satisfaction. Hard to tell. Before I could decide which, he turned away, disappearing into the crowd.

“Don’t worry about him.” Arrow followed my gaze. “He got exactly what he wanted.”

“And what’s that?”

“A front-row seat to the spectacle.” He guided me toward a quieter corner. “And the insurance that, when the dust settles, there will still be Virelli blood in the game.”

I laughed bitterly. “So, I’m just insurance?”

“Net, ty moy priz.”⁠*

The tone he had when speaking to me in Russian sent goose bumps across my skin. Turning away from him, I needed to escape his intensity, his certainty. The room suddenly felt too small, too hot, the air thick with perfume and politics and power plays.

“I need some air.” I pulled away from his grip, muttering the words more to myself than him.

For once, he didn’t stop me.

I weaved through the crowd, ignoring the curious glances and whispered comments that followed in my wake, until I found a set of French doors that led to a balcony overlooking the city.

The night air was a shock to my system, but I’d take hypothermia over one more minute of that suffocating heat. Gulping it down as if I’d been drowning, I let it fill my lungs.

Manhattan stretched below me, a constellation of lights against the darkness. Somewhere in that maze of concrete and steel was freedom. Or at least, the illusion of it.

“Beautiful view, isn’t it?”

Whirling around, I found Orion leaning against the doorframe, watching me.

“Running already?”

“Did Arrow send you to babysit me?” I wrapped my arms around myself against the chill.