Page 110 of Arrow

HARLOWE

The crowd had begun to grow restless. Drunker. Meaner. The Virelli and Romanov satellites circled tighter, and from our raised vantage, it was clear who would fight for dominance next and who would vanish before midnight. A new, unstable game was already in play, and Arrow was letting it run without interference. The cleanest violence is the kind that takes out your enemies as a natural function of their weakness.

Arrow leaned in, mouth close to my ear. “Are you ready to go?”

“So soon? I was just starting to enjoy watching everyone squirm.”

His breath was hot on my skin. “I have something better in mind.”

My pulse kicked. I knew what he meant. Knew it in the way his fingers had traced my spine during the waltz, in the way he’d looked at me after I bit him—like he wanted to return the favor somewhere no one else could see.

“Better than watching Manhattan’s elite trip over themselves to kiss your ring?”

“Much better.” His fingers tightened around mine, and the pressure sent a jolt straight through me. “But if you’d rather stay . . .”

I couldn’t. Not anymore. Not when every nerve in my body was screaming for him to finish what he’d started on that dance floor. Not when I’d spent the entire night pretending I didn’t want his hands on me, his mouth on me, and his body pinning me down until I forgot my own name.

Frank watched from the shadows. Our eyes met, and understanding passed between us. Permission. He knew what I was about to do—what had been building all night.

I turned back to Arrow, met those silver eyes, and let myself say what I’d been holding back since the moment he’d kissed me in front of all these vultures.

“Take me home, Romanov.”

It was a command, and he obeyed it the way a wolf obeys the full moon.

He arm locked around my waist, and he guided me down the stairs, with the single-minded focus of a predator moving in for the kill.

When the doors opened, cold autumn air hit me hard enough to make me gasp. Before I could react, Arrow’s coat settled over my shoulders, heavy and warm and smelling like him—bergamot and leather—a scent I found comfort in.

The ride back to the manor was silent at first. I kept my eyes on the city sliding past the window, lights blurring together as the driver navigated through traffic. My pulse hadn’t settled since the balcony, though.

Arrow sat beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat coming off him. He wasn’t looking out the window; he was looking at me.

His gaze tracked the line of my throat, the curve of my shoulder beneath his coat, and the way my dress had ridden up slightly when I’d slid into the car. He wanted me to look at him. Wanted me to acknowledge what was happening between us.

I didn’t give him the satisfaction.

Then his hand moved to my thigh.

His palm was hot through the thin silk of my dress, thumb pressing against the inside of my leg with absolute certainty—not tentative, not asking, just the weight of someone who believed he already owned me.

“You bit your lip seventeen times tonight.” Breaking the silence. “Every time someone asked about the wedding. Every time someone mentioned my name. Like you were trying to keep yourself from saying what you really wanted to say.”

I turned to look at him. “You were counting?”

“I count everything about you.” A glance, brief but enough to make my stomach drop. “How many times you touched that necklace. How many times you looked at me when you thought I wasn’t watching. How many times you crossed and uncrossed your legs under the table because you couldn’t sit still.”

“You’re delusional.”

“Am I?” His fingers spread wide, claiming the space between my hip and knee. “Tell me to move my hand, Harlowe.”

I shifted in my seat again. Just slightly, and just enough that his hand slid higher.

“That’s what I thought,” he murmured.

“Fuck you.”

“You will.” His thumb traced a slow circle on the inside of my thigh, just above my knee. Not moving higher. Not yet. Just reminding me he could. “But right now, I’m going to make you admit what we both already know.”