Page 104 of Arrow

“Not for you,” I promised.

Arrow’s hand settled at the back of my neck, heat burning through skin. He pulled me in, his lips a breath away from mine. His hand locked on my hip, dragging me against him until there was nothing between us but the thin lie of my dress.

The world narrowed. Every face, every future, every reason I had to stay sharp—gone. Just his body against mine, just the pressure of his mouth almost touching mine, just the knowledge that one inch would destroy every wall I’d built.

I almost kissed him. God, I wanted to . . . with all of Manhattan watching. I almost let myself give, just an inch, just enough for the truth to remind me who I was before I learned what it cost to want, but then I word-vomited before I did something I wouldn’t be able to take back.

“Imagine being her, in a world where you’re not an itemized asset on a sociopath’s balance sheet.”

He smiled as if he’d expected it, his hand floating up to graze the A pressed against my breastbone with his knuckle. “If I were just a sociopath, you’d be dead already.”

The quip died on my tongue.

It was true.

Not just because Arrow could have had me gone at any hour, but because his restraint was as fierce as his appetite.

The charm of the night was that they thought I could be bought or displayed; the joke was that every woman in this menagerie had been, once, the sacrificial lamb.

Arrow leaned down. “There’s a photographer from the Times who wants to snap us together under the chandelier.”

Rolling my eyes, I held the pose.

His arm locked at my waist like a viper’s body across its prey, the heat of his hand drawing the sensation of a split-second before a kiss. The bulb flashed, dizzying, and for a moment, everything was rendered in contrasts of dark and light, with nowhere safe to land in between.

After the picture, Arrow guided me through the guests to the dance floor. The string quartet navigated Bach with precision as I let myself be led across marble, feeling the eyes of the entire room on us. I wasn’t exactly a debutante, but my mother had made sure I could waltz with any monster who tried to wring an advantage out of the three-four time.

Arrow, however, didn’t bother with the subtleties. He took the lead with a hand at the base of my spine, fingertips splayed just above the slice in the dress. The first step, he yanked me closer than the music demanded, so our hips bruised.

We circled, his breath low at the edge of my ear, our bodies an axis no one else could challenge. The lights above turned into dioramas, splattering radiance across the parquet, and in each rotation, I caught the stares, the envy, the recalibrations happening in every rival’s head. That was the real music—the sound of future threats already sharpening to tempo.

“It’s tradition in my family,” Arrow said, voice velvet over gravel, “to open the floor alone.”

“You like the idea of everyone watching?” I hissed, eyes fixed over his shoulder at a group of Virelli cousins, their unblinking gazes glittering in time to our steps.

He grinned. “I like the idea that they remember who survived.” He spun me elegantly, almost violently, so my hair fanned in an arc, and the neckline of my dress threatened to slip another inch toward sacrilege. But when I landed, Arrow kept my body flush to his.

“You’re thinking about stabbing me, aren’t you?”

“Not until I’ve danced you into exhaustion.”

“Sweet little viper,” he said, not quietly. “You haven’t seen what I look like past exhaustion.”

“Maybe I don’t want to.”

“Liar.” His hand traced the curve of my spine, fingers skating over the exposed skin, before pressing me harder against him. “Your pulse is screaming.”

“That’s fear.”

“You’re lying to both of us.” He pulled me so close there was no space left to breathe. “I know what terror feels like against my body. Prey that’s truly afraid—they fold. Their muscles lock up, their breathing gets shallow.” His jaw brushed my temple. “You’re not folding. You’re leaning into it. That means you know exactly what this is, and you want it anyway. That’s so much more delicious than fear.”

“How poetic.” Every nerve in my body was on fire. “You’re basically admitting you get off knowing I’m choosing this.”

“I’m admitting I get off on you choosing this. There’s a difference.” He spun me again. “Most girls are too stupid to understand what they’re walking into. You’re not. You know I’m dangerous, and you’re still here, still trading barbs with me on a dance floor while a hundred people watch.”

“Maybe I’m just stupid in a different way.”

“No.” His hand found my jaw, tilted my face up to his. “Stupid would be running. What you’re doing? That takes a specific kind of courage. Or arrogance. I haven’t decided which one yet.”