Page 175 of Arrow

“The crypt?” I laughed.

Father Pavel cleared his throat again. “Perhaps you’d like to discuss the ceremony itself? The readings, the music⁠—”

“No choir,” Arrow cut in. “Too many variables.”

“Of course,” Father Pavel nodded. “And the vows? Traditional or . . . personalized?”

I laughed, imagining Arrow promising to cherish me until death—likely his—did us part. “I think we’ll write our own. Something about promising not to murder each other in our sleep.”

Arrow’s lips twitched. “At least not without proper motivation.”

The old priest looked genuinely concerned now, his rheumy eyes darting between us like he was watching a tennis match played with hand grenades. I almost felt sorry for him, dragged into our little war game of matrimony.

“The cathedral has excellent acoustics,” Father Pavel offered weakly, clearly trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground. “Perhaps some classical music during the processional?”

“Something Russian,” Arrow said, at the exact moment I said, “Something Italian.”

Our eyes met, and I saw that familiar flash—the one that meant we were both imagining the same bloody outcome to our disagreement.

“Both,” I conceded, surprising myself. “Start Russian, end Italian. Like our families will.”

Arrow’s laugh was a low, dangerous thing that echoed off the stone walls. Father Pavel crossed himself again.

“I’ll leave you two to . . . explore,” the priest murmured, backing away with the practiced caution of a man who’d spent decades around predators. “The bell tower access is through that door to your left. Ring the bell if you need anything.”

With that, he disappeared into the shadows, leaving me alone with Arrow at the altar.

Arrow watched the old man retreat, then turned to face me fully. The stained glass threw crimson shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp planes of his cheekbones and the intensity in his eyes. He looked like a demon who’d walked into holy ground just to prove he could.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, his voice echoing in the cavernous space.

I ran my fingers along the edge of the altar, feeling the worn stone beneath my fingertips. “I’m thinking that if we survive this wedding, it’ll be a miracle worthy of this church.”

“You don’t believe in miracles.”

“No,” I agreed, “but I believe in survival. And maybe that’s the same thing for people like us.”

He stepped closer. His hand found my waist, turning me to face him. We stood there, at the altar where we’d soon be bound, surrounded by saints who’d died for their convictions and sinners who’d kill for less.

“My father will have snipers on the roof across the street,” I said, matter-of-factly. “Even if your men search everyone, there will be guns in this church.”

“I’m counting on it,” Arrow replied. “A wedding without the threat of bloodshed would disappoint everyone, especially you.”

I laughed. I imagined the pews filled with beautiful monsters in designer clothes, weapons concealed beneath Italian suits and couture gowns. The symbolism wasn’t lost on me.

Arrow’s eyes darkened at that, fingers flexing against my hip. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“That was always the plan,” I whispered, pressing my palm against his chest where his heart beat steady and strong beneath my touch. “But not until after you make me your wife.”

His mouth curved into that dangerous smile I’d come to crave. He backed me against the altar, the cold stone pressing against my thighs as he caged me between his arms. The cathedral’s shadows wrapped around us like a shroud, the stained glass throwing blood-red patterns across his face.

“Do you want to know what I’m going to do to you on our wedding night?” he murmured, his lips brushing against my ear.

I tilted my head, exposing my neck to him. “Surprise me.”

He laughed, the sound echoing off the vaulted ceiling. His teeth grazed the tender skin below my jaw, right over the bruise he'd left earlier. “I’m going to make you forget your name, your family, everything except who you belong to.”

“Possessive, are we?” I breathed, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.