Page 20 of Arrow

“That won’t be necessary. I’ll send someone to collect them.” Arrow stood, buttoning his jacket. “Thank you for your assistance,” he said to the manager, his voice polished with professionalism. “The service has been impeccable.”

Outside, the sky had darkened, threatening rain. The car waited at the curb.

“Hungry?” Arrow asked as we approached the car.

“No.” I kept my eyes fixed on the pavement.

“Lunch,” he told his driver, ignoring my response. “The usual place.”

He opened the car door, and I slid inside, pressing myself against the far door again. Arrow followed, his presence filling the confined space like smoke.

“Was that so difficult?” he asked as the car pulled away from the curb.

I stared out the window, watching raindrops begin to streak the glass. “This isn’t a date.”

“No,” he agreed. “It’s preparation for a marriage.”

The word made my stomach clench. Marriage. To this man, who spoke of my brother’s murder as “unfortunate.” To this monster who wore civilization like a well-tailored suit. This was my future. Car rides with a man who saw me as property, who claimed ownership of me with the casual arrogance of someone who had never been denied anything.

“A marriage requires consent,” I said, the words sharp on my tongue. “I don’t recall giving mine.”

His gaze settled on me. “Your father gave it for you. That’s how our world works.”

“Our world,” I repeated, tasting the bitterness. “You mean the world where men trade daughters like baseball cards? Where family loyalty means selling your child to monsters?”

“Yes,” he said simply. “That world.”

His honesty stunned me into momentary silence. I had expected denials, justifications, perhaps even threats. Not this calm acknowledgment of the ugliness that bound us.

The car slid through midtown traffic, wipers clearing the increasing rain in hypnotic sweeps. We stopped at a red light, and I watched a couple dash across the street under a shared umbrella, laughing as they dodged puddles. Normal people living normal lives. I would never know what that felt like.

“What did you have engraved on my ring?” I asked.

Arrow’s lips curved into that not-quite-smile again. “You’ll see it when you wear it.”

“And if I refuse to wear it?”

“You won’t.”

The certainty in his voice made me want to scream. I dug my nails into my palms, focusing on the sharp pain to ground myself.

“I hate you,” I whispered, the words inadequate for the depth of feeling behind them.

“I know,” Arrow said, those gray eyes studying me with a detached fascination that made my skin crawl. “Your hatred is the most honest thing about you.”

7

SEVEN

HARLOWE

The car pulled up to a restaurant with darkened windows and a discreet entrance. Two men in suits materialized, opening our doors before the car fully stopped. Arrow emerged first, buttoning his jacket with that precise, mechanical movement that seemed to define him. He didn’t offer his hand when I stepped out, which was a small mercy. I didn’t want to touch him any more than necessary.

“This way,” he said, his hand hovering at the small of my back again, not quite touching, but close enough to feel the heat radiating from his palm.

The restaurant interior was full of polished wood and hushed conversations. The maître d’ recognized Arrow immediately, bowing slightly as he led us to a corner table partially screened by a decorative partition. Private, but still visible enough to be seen by anyone who mattered. This wasn’t just lunch, it was a statement.

“Mr. Romanov, your usual table,” the maître d’ said, pulling out my chair.