Page 42 of Arrow

“I hate you,” I said, loud enough for Frank to hear.

Maybe loud enough for the entire world.

Arrow set the cigarette on the rim of the glass and caught my chin in two fingers, keeping his touch feather-light, as if the merest additional force would betray something unplanned.

“But you’re still here.”

It was almost a question, but mostly a dare.

I shoved his hand away, and his mouth ticked into a smile, not unkind but monstrous in its certainty.

A knock at the door interrupted us. Mrs. Montalto poked her head in, her smile strained at the corners.

“I hate to interrupt, but we need to discuss the seating for the Albanians and the Kosovans. They can’t be at the same table, obviously.”

Arrow didn’t take his eyes off me. “Put the Albanians near the kitchen, the Kosovans by the exit. And make sure there’s at least three tables between them.”

“Excellent solution,” she chirped, scribbling on her clipboard. “Now, about the menu⁠—”

“It’s fine,” Arrow cut her off. “Whatever you’ve arranged is approved.”

I could sense his dismissal, the way he cut through her list of concerns like they were beneath him. And they were. Arrow Romanov had probably ordered dozens of hits before breakfast—wedding menus were trivial by comparison.

Mrs. Montalto hesitated, clearly wanting to discuss more details, but something in his posture made her reconsider. “Of course. I’ll just . . . check on the florists, while I wait for you both to rejoin me.” She disappeared, leaving us alone again.

Turning away from Arrow, I walked to the vanity and examined my reflection in the mirror.

The woman staring back at me looked hollowed out, bruised, not just on her skin, but somewhere deeper. I touched the collar at my throat, feeling its weight.

“You’re going to try to run again,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

I met his eyes in the mirror. “Wouldn’t you?”

He moved behind me, his reflection joining mine. His hands came to rest on my shoulders, fingers spread possessively across my skin.

“Yes,” he admitted. “But I would plan it better.”

A surprised laugh escaped me. “Is that advice?”

“An observation.” His thumbs traced circles at the base of my neck. “You’re smart, Harlowe. But you’re impulsive. Reckless.”

“And you're a cold-hearted bastard.” I leaned forward, trying to escape his touch without seeming to retreat. “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? Your family needs someone who can think three moves ahead, and my family needs someone who can feel something other than contempt.”

His grip tightened, just enough to make me still. “And you think this is what—a marriage of complementary traits? Your fire to my ice?”

I held his gaze in the mirror. “I think it’s a business transaction with orgasms as the signing bonus.”

His mouth curved into a smile that never reached his eyes. “You think that’s what happens on our wedding night? That I’ll claim what’s mine?”

“Won’t you?” I scoffed, hating the way my voice betrayed me with a slight tremor.

His fingers traced up my neck, along my jaw, until they tangled in my hair. “Only if you ask for it. Nicely.”

“I’d rather die.”

“We both know that’s not true.” He twisted his fingers, tilting my head back until my throat was exposed. “I’ve tasted that sweet, rebellious pussy of yours, Harlowe. I know exactly how wet you get when I put you on your knees.”

Heat flooded my cheeks, humiliation and anger tangling together. “That’s just biology—my body reacting to stimulus.”