Page 191 of Arrow

“Quite the blessing,” I replied. “I especially liked the part about knives and pleasure.”

She laughed, resting her hand on her belly. “You’ll get used to it. This world . . . it creates its own kind of romance. Bloody, but genuine.”

Arrow’s lips brushed my ear. “Did you want a more traditional toast?” he murmured. “Something about eternal love and happiness?”

“God, no,” I replied, leaning back against him. “Atlas has the right idea. Better to acknowledge what this really is than pretend we’re some fairy tale.”

Luna’s eyes tracked between us, a small smile playing on her lips. “You two are perfect for each other, you know. Both equally damaged.”

“Is that a compliment?” I asked.

“The highest one I can give. Finding someone whose darkness complements your own is rare.”

Luna placed her hand protectively on her belly again, her eyes softening as she looked at Atlas across the room. Something inside me twisted—not quite envy, but a longing for whatever certainty she’d found in her own chaotic marriage.

“How did you know?” I asked, my voice dropping low enough that only she could hear. “That it wasn’t just survival with Atlas? That it was actually something more?”

Her eyes met mine. “I didn’t, not at first. But there was a moment—” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “He’d killed someone,” Luna whispered, her eyes growing distant with the memory. “Someone who helped people hurt me. It wasn’t the killing that told me—it was how he looked after. Covered in blood, shaking, not with guilt but with fear that I’d look at him differently. That I’d finally see the monster everyone warned me about.”

I nodded, understanding completely. “And did you?”

“I saw a man who would destroy worlds to keep me safe.” Her hand absently traced circles on her belly. “That’s when I knew this wasn’t just about survival anymore. When someone shows you exactly who they are—the darkest, most violent parts—and you still choose them . . . that’s something else entirely.”

Arrow’s hand pressed more firmly against my stomach. Both claim and protection. I leaned into him without thinking, my body responding to his even when my mind was elsewhere. I wondered if he could hear our conversation, if he understood what Luna was really telling me.

“And the baby?” I asked softly. “Was that planned or . . .?”

Luna’s smile was radiant. “Nothing in my life has been planned. But this—” she placed both hands on her belly “—feels like the most deliberate choice I’ve ever made. Creating something instead of destroying.”

I tried to imagine Arrow and me creating something together rather than leaving devastation in our wake. The image was so foreign it almost made me laugh. Yet something about it lodged in my chest, a splinter I couldn’t quite dislodge.

“You’ll have your moment,” Luna murmured, watching us with knowing eyes. “Probably with guns involved, knowing you two.”

“Or knives,” Arrow added dryly.

Luna laughed, the sound genuine among so much forced politeness.

“Ladies,” Atlas appeared, sliding his arm around Luna’s waist. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Just girl talk,” Luna replied, leaning into his touch. “Wedding jitters and all that.”

Atlas’s eyes found mine, assessing. “Jitters? I wouldn’t have pegged you as the nervous type, Harlowe.”

“Not nervous,” I corrected, feeling Arrow’s grip tighten slightly at my waist. “Just realistic about the odds of someone getting shot before I say ‘I do.’”

Atlas laughed, the sound genuine despite the truth in my words. “The security’s solid. No one’s dying at this wedding unless I allow it.”

“How reassuring,” I murmured, taking another champagne flute from a passing server.

The room had settled into a tense equilibrium—Virellis on one side, Romanovs on the other, with neutral parties scattered throughout like buffer zones in a demilitarized area. I spotted Frank near the entrance, his eyes constantly scanning, one hand tucked inside his jacket where I knew he kept his Glock. My father had moved to a corner table, surrounded by his capos, their heads bent together in conversation that looked far too serious for a rehearsal dinner.

“Your father seems agitated,” Atlas observed, following my gaze.

“He’s always agitated,” I replied. “Especially when he can’t control the narrative.”

Arrow’s thumb traced small circles against my hip. “Giovanni Virelli always has an agenda,” Arrow said, his voice low. “The question is whether it’s the one we think it is.”

I watched my father lean in closer to his men, their expressions grim. Whatever they were discussing, it wasn’t wedding arrangements. A chill ran down my spine despite Arrow’s warmth at my back.