Page 180 of Arrow

“Now I think there are worse things than death.” I turned to look at him, taking in the sharp angles of his face, the darkness behind his eyes. “Living as your wife.” I watched his face for a reaction. “Letting my father think he’s won.”

His mouth curved into a smile so cold it could have frozen hell itself. “You think marrying me is your father’s victory?”

“I think he believes it is,” I said, watching the city lights slide across Arrow’s face. “He thinks he’s neutralizing a threat by binding our families, and you think you’re getting the ultimate revenge by claiming his daughter. Everyone thinks they’re winning.”

His hand moved higher on my thigh, possessive and warm against my still-damp skin. “And what do you think you’re winning, moya malen’kaya gadyuka?”⁠*

I turned to face him fully, taking in his devastatingly beautiful face, relishing in the way he claimed me in Russian. He didn’t realize how something so simple as calling me his little viper changed everything. The marks of our violence were written all over both of us—a language only we could read.

“Freedom,” I said. “The moment I become yours, I stop being his.”

Something flickered in Arrow’s eyes—not tenderness, but understanding. The car slowed as we approached his building, the sleek glass tower cutting a sharp silhouette against the night sky. Frank’s eyes met mine in the rearview mirror, and I saw the pride in his eyes. More pride than my own father had ever had for me.

“Your father thinks I’ll break you,” Arrow said, his voice low enough that only I could hear. “That’s why he agreed to this arrangement. He thinks I’ll destroy what’s left of you, and he’ll get to watch.”

I laughed, the sound. “Let him watch. Let them all watch. This is exactly what happens when you sell your daughter to the devil.” I smiled as the car pulled to a stop. I’d become his monster bride, and my father would have to live with the knowledge that he’d created this unholy union. Let him think I was being sacrificed to pay his debts—to save himself. The truth was messier. Bloodier. I was choosing my destruction on my own terms.

Arrow kept his hand on the small of my back as we entered the building. The elevator doors opened with a soft chime. His hand never left my body as we stepped inside, his fingers tracing possessive patterns against my spine. The mirrored walls reflected us back at ourselves—me with my hair slightly disheveled, my lips swollen, and Arrow looking like the devil himself in his perfectly tailored suit.

“You look thoroughly fucked,” he murmured, his eyes meeting mine in the reflection.

I arched an eyebrow. “I wonder whose fault that is.”

His laugh was low and dangerous as he pressed the button for the penthouse. The elevator began its ascent, and I couldn’t help but remember the last time we’d been in this enclosed space—his hands around my throat, my back against the wall, the security camera capturing every moment of our violent passion.

“Do you think they’ve cleaned the footage yet?” I asked, nodding toward the small black dome in the corner.

His smile was wicked. “I co-own the building, Harlowe. No one sees those tapes but me.”

“Keeping a collection?” I teased, though the thought of him watching our encounters later, alone in his office, sent a shiver of heat through me.

He leaned in, his breath hot against my ear. “Only the ones worth remembering.”

The elevator came to a smooth stop, the doors sliding open to reveal the penthouse foyer. I stepped out first, kicking off my heels as soon as I crossed the threshold. The marble was cool beneath my bare feet. Arrow followed, locking the door behind us with a finality that sent a shiver up my spine.

“Hungry?” he asked, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over the back of a chair.

I shook my head, watching as he loosened his tie, his movements precise and controlled despite everything we’d done in the cathedral. My body still hummed with the aftereffects of our sacrilege, my inner thighs sticky with the evidence of his claim.

“I should shower,” I said, running a hand through my tangled hair.

His eyes darkened as he watched me. “Let me see you first.”

It wasn’t a request. I stood still as he approached, his steps measured and predatory. He circled behind me, his fingers finding the zipper of my dress and slowly drawing it down. The fabric parted, exposing my spine to the cool air of the penthouse. He pushed the dress from my shoulders, letting it pool at my feet, leaving me naked except for my bra.

“Turn around,” he commanded.

I did, meeting his gaze without flinching. His eyes traveled down my body, taking in the marks he’d left—bruises blooming on my hips, bite marks on my inner thighs, the tender redness between my legs where he’d claimed me on sacred ground.

“You’re a masterpiece,” he said, his voice low and appreciative. “My masterpiece.”

“Your masterpiece,” I repeated, tasting the words. “Is that what a wife is? Something you create and own?”

His fingers traced the curve of my hip, following a particularly vivid bruise. “Not a wife. You. Other men have wives. I’ll have something far more dangerous.”

I stepped closer, my bare skin brushing against the fabric of his shirt. “And what’s that?”

“An equal.” He caught my wrist, thumb pressing against my pulse. “Someone who knows exactly how to cut me and chooses when to do it.”