Page 66 of Arrow

“And what is required?” My voice cracked.

“Survival,” he said simply. “That’s all I expect from you right now.”

Arrow turned to leave, but I caught his wrist. His muscles tensed beneath my fingers, but he didn’t pull away. I didn’t know why I’d reached for him—maybe to stop him from leaving, maybe to prove I could touch him without permission.

“Why did you really take me from my father’s house?” I asked.

He looked down at where my fingers circled his wrist. “Because I don’t share what’s mine. Not even with your father’s fists.”

The possessiveness in his voice should have disgusted me, but instead, it sent a shiver down my spine that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

“I’m not yours yet,” I whispered.

Arrow smirked. “Keep telling yourself that.” He gently extracted his wrist from my grip. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow will be worse.”

He left me standing in the doorway, my body still humming from his touch. I listened to his steps move down the hallway. A whole minute passed before the world staggered back onto its axis.

The silence finally settled, but it wasn’t the silence of victory. It was the silence of surrender, of the last twitch after the neck breaks.

17

SEVENTEEN

HARLOWE

The guest bed swallowed me whole that night, its softness an insult to my pride. Morning arrived with the scent of coffee drifting upstairs.

Arrow was nowhere in sight when I tiptoed to the kitchen.

Sunlight filtered through the glass, making every pore and line on my hands stand out.

The coffee burned going down, bitter enough to feel like penance, then the bathroom called me back upstairs.

After relieving myself and washing my hands, the mirror above the sink held my attention. My eyes traced the echo of his grip in the swelling at my throat. It occurred to me that, not long from now, there would probably be more bruises than skin.

I brushed my teeth, spit into the marble basin, and wondered what Arrow would look like with all his fingers broken. The fantasy was vivid, but it did nothing to shrink the possibility that, eventually, I’d let him break me first.

The day stretched on, and I spent it alone. No television, no phone, no signal. By noon, I stalked the perimeter of Arrow’s house like an animal, searching for a flaw. Every door was coded, every window mirrored, but none of it felt like a prison.

Arrow had given me enough freedom to come and go within my cage, so long as I never lost sight of the cameras blinking in the corner. I tested the locks anyway, pressing my ear to the glass, trying to imagine footsteps coming for me, or a shout, or the whine of tires on the gravel out back.

Hours passed without him. Dusk arrived first, flooding the rooms with long shadows, and then he followed—entering from the garage while I scavenged the kitchen. He wore a black T-shirt and jeans, humming a low, fractured melody, his face flushed from the cold.

He washed his hands at the sink, and I stared at the veins on his arms. He didn’t look up at me until he dried his hands on a linen towel and flicked the light over the island.

“Harlowe.”

His voice caught me off guard. I’d been so lost in my own head that I hadn’t noticed him watching me from the doorway.

“What?” I aimed for boredom, not surprise.

“You need to eat something real.” He moved to the refrigerator and pulled out chicken breasts, vegetables, and pasta. “Not just coffee and whatever scraps you’ve been picking at all day.”

Arms crossed, I leaned into the counter’s edge. “Playing house already? How domestic.”

The barb landed nowhere. As Arrow began preparing dinner, his hands moved with the same precision he’d used on my body the night before, and I hated how my skin remembered.

“The wedding planner called,” he said casually, as if discussing the weather. “She wants to confirm your dress fitting tomorrow.”