Page 61 of Arrow

“Death is easy,” he said quietly. “Living is the punishment.”

I bared my teeth, hating the tremor in my jaw. “Is that what this is? A punishment for being born a Virelli? You want me to fear you, is that it, Romanov?”

Arrow considered the question.

“Fear is a flavor. But you taste better when you’re angry.” He bent his head, and I tensed for the bite, the blow, the old, rehearsed violence.

He brushed his mouth to the bruise just under my jaw, a pressure so soft it burned only in memory.

“I don’t want a lamb, Harlowe.”

“Good,” I threw back. “Because I bite.”

A rumbling sound vibrated against my chest that sounded like approval and satisfaction all wrapped into one. He stepped away, breaking whatever thread he’d stretched between us.

“I made dinner,” he announced, already halfway out the door. “Don’t make me come get you.”

He left me standing in the quiet, the echo of his breath against my neck a brand more permanent than any chain. My hands trembled as I drew the curtains. I padded to the bathroom, and splashed cold water on my face, the chill creeping into my arteries, freezing something ugly in place.

I wanted to feel nothing, but I accidentally felt everything.

* My little viper

16

SIXTEEN

HARLOWE

The kitchen smelled like rosemary and char. A table set for two held candles framing a steak, salad, and red wine—Arrow already carving into his own plate as I stepped inside. He didn’t look up when I entered, but the seat across from him waited, unmistakingly mine.

No threats, no orders. Just the expectation.

Sit.

So I did, sinking into the black leather chair opposite him, tucking my bruised hands beneath the table so I wouldn’t have to see them. I stared at the wineglass, the flickering gold of the votive, the perfect geometry of his jaw as he chewed.

This was the slowest part of the kill, I realized. The boring, domestic stillness that let the terror catch up.

He finished his bite and wiped his mouth. “Eat.”

I ignored him, swirling the wine, letting its perfume muster and burn the insides of my nostrils, before downing the entire glass.

Would he force-feed me? Would it be a replay of the donut shop?

My face must have given my thoughts away, because he cocked his head, watching, and then, almost lazily, got up and circled behind me.

For a tense second, I thought he’d pin me to the table. Instead, he poured more wine into my glass, the glugging sound drawing out beads of sweat on my neck. The bottle clinked against the rim as he set it down, then his finger traced along my jaw, absently, as if mapping my pain.

“Eat,” he said again, quieter, almost a whisper.

Reaching for the steak, I cut it into a hunk too rare and too large, and chewed with deliberate violence, hoping the churn of my mouth would camouflage the way my heart battered itself to a pulp. Every time my knife scraped the plate, his eyes flickered, the air between us preloaded with something I refused to admit was kin to desire.

I cleaned my plate, not out of obedience, but because it was the only way to keep my teeth from chattering.

When the food was gone, Arrow folded his napkin, pushed back his chair, and regarded me with a bleak, world-ending stillness.

“I don’t expect you to be grateful. I do expect you to adapt.”