Page 44 of Arrow

“Two months,” he said. “You can call it a sentence, or a dare. Either way, you’re mine at the end of it. Oh, and from now on, stay away from La Lune Noire.”

Like hell, I would.

I didn’t reply.

Climbing into the car, I shut the door hard enough to feel the vibration echo through my bones.

12

TWELVE

HARLOWE

After the walk-through, Frank stayed close, always in the background, fading into paneling or woodwork but never further than a shout. If he caught me eyeing him, or the gun at his belt, he did the same barest twitch of a smile.

“Today’s not the day,” I said. “But maybe tomorrow.”

I tried to ignore the texts—Arrow’s, Mrs. Montalto’s, the endless roll call of family friends, relatives, and lawyers who’d begun to circle like vultures now that my future had been signed away. Arrow was indisposed, handling some mob business, which kept him far away from me.

Romanov men started turning up at my parties, my gym, even the bakery where my mother used to buy impossible lemon brioche on Sundays. I caught one, Yuri, at the Starbucks on East Houston, reading Dostoevsky in the slowest, most unaffected way possible.

I sent him a double espresso on my father’s card, just to let him know I’d clocked him.

“Don’t get lost in the translation,” I called out as I left.

He smiled without ever looking up.

The city felt different now. Leaner, and hungrier, as if the air itself had contracted around a singularity of violence. Even the weather seemed locked in, unable to shed the weight of thunder that hovered above the skyline for hours, daring anyone foolish enough to expect sun.

If I caught glimpses of Arrow, they were always in passing. Sometimes, it was a silhouette in a private suite across from the Met, or the brutal snatch of his profile in newsprint, or a headline spun for the benefit of shareholders and state prosecutors. He was everywhere and yet, like a ghost layered atop real space, nowhere at all, which only seemed to make the ache between my thighs worsen, for reasons I couldn’t yet put into words.

Arrow had demanded I stay away from La Lune Noir, but I’d be damned if I let that man tell me what to do. After some begging—no, threatening—Madame Isadora agreed to let me perform.

At the end of the day, money talked more than mobsters. It was the last bit of rebellion in my world, where every window of freedom was closing on me. I didn’t want any extra layers hindering my submission. And she knew I was her highest-paying act.

She introduced us, and I followed Zephyr onto the stage.

Tonight, I wore a sheer white robe with nothing underneath. The place was more crowded than usual. He untied the sash to my robe, and I shimmied out of it, letting it fall to my feet. Zephyr ran his hand across my shoulder, down between my breasts, and ended at the top of my belly button, gently guiding me to the wooden X behind me. He bound my wrists with red silk, tying it in a knot only he could release.

I let his hands explore my body, pinching my hard nipples then drifting down to my bare pussy. He slipped his hand between my thighs, deliberate and unhurried, and found me slick with anticipation.

Zephyr liked to play with expectation as his fingers moved with the confidence of someone who knew how to suspend suffering and pleasure at the exact boiling point, winding me up until I was breathless and frantic.

He circled my clit with a single knuckle, then leaned in and bit my shoulder—not hard enough to bruise, but enough to keep me present. I shivered and arched into the restraints.

Behind him, the audience pressed forward, their shadows writhing across the cracked mosaics of the cathedral walls.

He flicked the cane against my thigh, once, twice, the sharp crack echoing in the old nave. Laughter and low moans rose from the balconies, and my pulse surged with the raw chemistry of being completely, beautifully seen—humiliation as currency.

I needed him to break me, his hand so tight around my core and shame that I’d have nothing left to give Arrow.

But Zephyr never took the easy route. He slid the cane between my legs, pressed it flush to my cunt, and let it rest there, cool and vibrating with the last tremor of impact. The shock made me gasp, my knees shaking against the X. Like all the times before, he brought me to the brink and pulled back.

He unhooked my wrists, spun me, and pushed me down to my knees on the velvet-draped altar. He knelt behind, wrapped his fist in my hair, and forced my face to the floor with the gentle gravity of someone who saw right through me. The crowd leaned in, hunger and envy licking the air.

“You’re not worshipping,” Zephyr whispered in my ear.

“I don’t believe in God,” I hissed.