Page 200 of Arrow

We rode the elevator in silence, my mind racing with the implications of everything Arrow had told me. If my father had orchestrated Luca’s death, what else was he capable of? What other schemes had he set in motion that I was unaware of? The thought sent ice through my veins.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, and Arrow guided me into the penthouse with his hand at the small of my back. I kicked off my heels the moment we crossed the threshold, the cool marble floor a relief against my aching feet.

“You should get some rest,” Arrow said, his voice careful and measured. “Tomorrow will be . . . intense.”

I laughed, the sound hollow and brittle. “That’s one word for it.” I walked to the bar and poured myself a generous measure of whiskey, needing something stronger than the champagne we’d been drinking all evening. “My father thinks I’m his spy. Your family thinks I’m your weakness. Everyone’s expecting blood at the altar. And now I find out my father might have orchestrated my brother’s death.” I knocked back the whiskey in one burning swallow. “Intense doesn’t begin to cover it.”

Arrow watched me from across the room, his eyes dark and unreadable. He’d loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar, but otherwise looked as composed as ever. I hated him a little for that—his ability to remain controlled when I was falling apart at the seams.

“Do you still want to go through with it?” he asked quietly. “The wedding.”

The question caught me off guard. I set the empty glass down on the bar with a sharp click. “Are you offering me a way out?”

“I’m asking what you want.”

What did I want? What I wanted had never been a consideration before. My entire life had been dictated by my father’s demands, his expectations, his schemes. And now Arrow was asking me, not telling me, not commanding me, but asking what I wanted.

“I want the truth,” I said finally, pouring another measure of whiskey. “All of it. No more secrets, no more half-truths.”

He crossed the room slowly, his movements deliberate as he approached me. He took the glass from my hand, his fingers brushing mine in a touch that felt electric despite its brevity. He set it aside, then cupped my face in his hands, his touch unexpectedly gentle.

“The truth is that I’ve wanted you since the first moment I saw you,” he said. “Not as a pawn, not as a possession, but as the only person in this godforsaken city who could match me. Who could see the darkness in me and not flinch away.”

My breath caught in my throat. This wasn’t the Arrow I knew—the cold, calculating crime lord who took what he wanted and destroyed anyone who stood in his way. This was someone else entirely, someone vulnerable beneath the armor of violence and control.

“Why me?” I whispered, my hands coming up to grip his wrists. Not pushing him away, not pulling him closer—just holding on. “Of all the women in New York, why Giovanni Virelli’s daughter?”

“Because you were never afraid,” Arrow said, his thumbs stroking my cheekbones. “Even when you should have been. Even when any sane person would have been terrified.”

I leaned into his touch. “That’s not bravery. That’s just a broken survival instinct.”

“No,” he said, his voice low and fervent. “It’s strength. The kind that can’t be taught or bought. The kind that’s forged through fire and pain.”

His words resonated in places I’d kept locked away, dark corners where I hid the parts of myself too dangerous to acknowledge. I’d spent years building walls, protecting myself from a world that had never shown me anything but cruelty. And somehow, this man—this enemy—had found the cracks.

“Tomorrow, we stand in that cathedral and make vows neither of us ever expected to make,” Arrow continued, his eyes never leaving mine. “Your father will be watching. My family will be watching. Everyone will be waiting for this to implode.”

“And will it?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

His lips curved into that dangerous smile I’d come to crave. “Not the way they expect.”

He released me then, stepping back just enough to create space between us. The loss of his touch left me feeling strangely bereft. I watched as he crossed to the bar and poured himself a drink, his movements precise and controlled. I watched him drink, the strong column of his throat working as he swallowed. Tomorrow, I would be his wife.

“Do you have regrets?” I asked suddenly. “About any of it?”

Arrow considered the question, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “About Luca? Every day. About us?” His eyes met mine across the dim room. “Not a single one.”

I moved toward him, drawn by some force I couldn’t name. When I reached him, I took the glass from his hand and set it aside. Standing this close, I could see the faint scar along his jawline, and the tiny flecks of gold in his dark eyes that appeared only in certain light.

“I used to dream about killing you,” I admitted, my fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “I had it all planned out—how I’d make you suffer, how I’d watch the life drain from your eyes. Everything I thought I knew was a lie. My father, Luca’s death . . . even my hatred for you.”

Arrow’s other hand slid to my waist, drawing me closer. “Hatred is easier,” he said softly. His hand caught mine, holding it against his face. “And now?”

“Now? Now, I can’t breathe without you, and the part that scares me most is that I don’t want to.”

Arrow’s eyes darkened at my confession, his pupils dilating until there was almost no color left. His grip on my waist tightened, pulling me flush against him.

“Say that again,” he commanded.