Page 68 of Arrow

Arrow looked at my plate and then back at me. “No, you’re not.”

“I said I’m done.” I stood from the stool, ready to walk away, but he caught my wrist firmly.

“Sit the fuck down and finish your dinner.”

“Or what, killer?” I shot back.

He leaned in. “Or I’ll feed it to you myself.”

The memory of the donut shop flashed through my mind—his hand in my hair, forcing me to eat while people watched. I sat back down, hating myself for the small surrender.

“Good girl,” he murmured, and I wanted to stab him with my fork.

When I finished, I pushed the plate toward him with deliberate slowness.

“Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” he replied dryly, collecting the plates and rinsing them in the sink. His back was to me, his shoulders broad beneath his T-shirt. “There are clothes in your closet. Wear something appropriate tomorrow.”

“Appropriate for what? A funeral?”

He dried his hands on a towel and turned to face me. “No. Appropriate for a woman who is about to become the wife of a Romanov.”

“Ah, like a perfect little mob wife.”

“I don’t need perfect,” he said. “I just need you to stop looking like you’ve been dragged through every brothel in the five boroughs.”

I laughed, the sound ugly even to my ears. “Oh, I’m sorry. Does my appearance embarrass you? Poor little Prince Romanov, with his damaged goods.”

He moved toward me then, and I braced myself for violence that didn’t come. He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on my cheek. “You could never embarrass me, malen’kaya gadyuka. But you’re trying very hard to embarrass yourself.”

I jerked away from his touch. “Don’t pretend you care.”

“I never pretend anything.” His eyes held mine, unflinching. “That’s the difference between us.”

Storming out of the kitchen, I refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing how his words had landed.

In my room—fuck, not mine—I slammed the door and leaned against it, sliding down until I hit the floor.

This was my life now—trapped in a glass castle with a monster who made dinner and touched me like he owned every inch of me.

That night, I didn’t sleep. I lay awake on the too-soft mattress, tracing patterns in the ceiling and counting down the hours until my fitting. By morning, I was exhausted but wired, my nerves stretched as thin as piano wire.

Showering, I let the scalding water beat against my skin until it turned pink, then wrapped myself in a towel and ventured to the closet.

I chose a simple black dress with long sleeves that covered the bruises on my arms. It fit perfectly, which only made me angrier. I applied enough makeup to cover the worst of the damage on my face, then headed downstairs.

Arrow was waiting by the front door, phone in hand, scrolling through messages. He looked up when he heard me, his eyes tracing a path from my hair to my heels.

“You’re wearing something appropriate,” he said, sounding almost pleased. “That’s a good start.”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t get used to it.”

He pocketed his phone and straightened his already perfect tie. “The car is waiting. Mrs. Montalto is expecting us at the atelier in thirty minutes.”

“Us?” I raised an eyebrow. “I thought the groom wasn’t supposed to see the bride’s dress before the wedding. Bad luck and all that.”

“I think we’re well past worrying about bad luck, don’t you?” He opened the door, gesturing for me to go first. “Besides, I want to make sure you don’t try to run. Again. Speaking of, where’s your collar?”