Page 143 of Arrow

I let her ride the stillness, let her decide whether to devour or forgive. She settled, pelvis flush to mine, her cunt so wet it threatened to make a river out of both of us. Harlowe held herself there, the pulse at her neck a living seismograph, every tremor tracking something ancient and unyielding.

She bent forward, forehead to mine, sweat beading at her temples, and let her hair form a black tent around our faces. I kissed her, full-lipped and slow, and she let it linger until the ache of wanting more was worse than the urge for oxygen itself.

When she started to move, it was with her hips rolling slowly, as if every inch was a negotiation between pleasure and pain. My hands pinned her thighs, holding her wide, every muscle in my forearms raw from the effort of not just flipping her over and rutting out the ancient need.

“You think it’s possible?” she panted, pace quickening with every bounce. “You think we could ever be more than just damage and reaction?”

I sucked a bruise that would bloom at her clavicle. “The best things are made from damage and reaction.”

Harlowe smiled, and the smile was not a lie.

She leaned in, chest to chest, and rode me until my mouth was full of her hair and my lungs ached. She let me come with a shudder, the wrist of my hand tangled in her hair, my teeth bared at the ceiling, and the whole city burning out behind my retinas. She collapsed on top, and for a time, there was nothing but sweat, breaths, and the least possibility of hope.

30

THIRTY

HARLOWE

The next week passed like a fever dream, half-day breaks and half-blackouts, the restlessness carving its pattern into the new normal. The city’s temperature rose with each hour, rumors and open threats heating the avenues.

Arrow never said if he was sleeping or not. Sometimes, late at night, I’d hear the click of him loading a magazine or the low click of his phone, orchestrating. Other times, I woke to him curled head-to-ankle beside me, asleep but not at all at rest, the tension in his hands shouting the story of his dreams.

Our days sorted themselves into strange rituals. He taught me how to shoot. A few times we went to practice at the hardcore basement range below Solzhenitsyn’s old jazz club, other times on the roof of the penthouse, where we fired Glocks at the skyline and placed bets on who could quote more Camus before breakfast.

I forced him to read novels with me, made him guess the endings, and Arrow almost always did, but not in the way that ruined the book. He’d always say, “It ends with blood,” or “The lover kills himself for show but forgets to make it look like an accident.” Sometimes he’d guess humiliation instead of murder, and every time I changed the subject before the prediction came true.

At breakfast, Arrow scanned the news and pointed at the contracts on his head, small moves made by the new wave of hunger in Crown Heights and the Bronx, the clickbait headlines about the union between me and him, and the photoshopped images of us at last Friday’s party, my hand in his, eyes burning so bright someone on Reddit claimed they were filter-enhanced.

I spent a whole hour reading the comments. I laughed at most of them, though the best ones landed in the ugly place just below my ribs, a hollow you can’t fill with food or even sex, only with the slow acid of knowing how much you were never admired, just studied.

When Arrow would leave, he’d text me dirty suggestions so filthy I’d pace the penthouse waiting for him to come home so that I could jump his bones. But tonight, he said he’d be late. I turned on the TV, letting the sound of the newscaster drone on in the background while I made myself a sandwich.

“Trouble in Paradise? New York’s Russian Playboy, Arrow Romanov, was spotted at The Raven nightclub on the arm of none other than Svetlana Kovenski, heiress to the Kovenski diamond empire and former flame of the notorious bad boy.”

I froze, sandwich halfway to my mouth, as they flashed a grainy photo of Arrow in a dark suit, with a woman who had platinum blonde hair cascading down her back. She was pressed against him, her red lips close to his ear, whispering something that made him smile. My stomach twisted into a knot. I set the sandwich down, my appetite vanishing as quickly as my illusions about what we were building together.

“Sources say the two were seen getting cozy in the VIP section, with Romanov leaving in the early hours of the morning. This sighting comes just days before his scheduled wedding to Harlowe Virelli, daughter of⁠—”

I hurled the remote at the TV screen, shattering the glass and sending sparks flying. The room fell silent except for the sound of my ragged breathing.

Former flame? Getting cozy?

My fingers trembled as I pulled up my phone, scrolling through social media. It didn’t take long to find the pictures—Arrow with his arm around a statuesque blonde, her body pressed against his in the dim lighting of the club. His face was half-turned from the camera, but there was no mistaking him.

The woman was gorgeous—all legs and curves, with the kind of practiced seduction that came from a lifetime of being the prettiest girl in every room. I’d seen her before, at Romanov events, always circling Arrow like a shark that smelled blood in the water.

The chain at my neck suddenly felt like a noose.

Pacing the penthouse, my mind raced with scenarios, each more violent than the last.

Was this some twisted game? A strategic move? Or had I actually been naïve enough to believe I was special?

The rational part of my brain knew this was probably business, but the irrational part wanted to burn everything to the ground. And unfortunately for him, I was a Virelli, and irrationality was quickly winning out.

I tried Frank first, but he didn’t pick up. Of course not. He was probably trailing Arrow, watching him with that blonde bitch, making sure he didn’t get into too much trouble before the wedding.

The wedding. What a fucking joke.