Page 93 of Arrow

“Didn’t we already have one of those?”

“The last one was more of an announcement dinner. This one will have the entire city in attendance.”

Great. That meant it would be covered by every lens and paparazzi in the city. I nearly laughed.

“When is it?”

“Tonight.”

He watched my face morph—doubt, horror, and then a giggle that stuck in my throat. “Are you serious?”

“The designer is already on her way.” He stood, stretching the old blood and trauma out of his shoulders, then crossed to the fridge, yanked out a bottle of water, and drank half in one go. The casual violence of it—the way he slammed the cap on the counter afterward—made something bright and unreal spark behind my eyes.

“What’s expected of me?” I asked, gratified to hear my voice at least try to rise to the occasion.

Arrow wiped his mouth with the heel of his hand and smirked. “You’ll be at my side.”

“What if I refuse? You gonna shoot me in the face, too?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Not until the afterparty.”

A snicker escaped me. “I should probably shower.”

Then, I walked away from him, not waiting for permission.

* Sweet girl

21

TWENTY-ONE

HARLOWE

The dress was already on the bed when I emerged from the shower, steaming and pink, hair still soaked, leaving stripes down my back. The designer waited in the hallway, cardboard box by her feet, a handmade pin cushion shaped like a tomato. Arrow must have provided every measurement and psychological profile in advance.

She was petite, with acid-blonde hair, center-parted, and clipped back. She greeted me by name, then sized me up with a glance and said, “Shall we?”

It wasn’t black, more a crimson red, like vermillion. The fabric was softer than skin, and slit to the thigh. I wanted to hate it—I did hate it—but there it was, perfect and absurd. Romanov blood in a Virelli hull. The deep V neckline mocked modesty, and the back gaped open, leaving a trail of bare skin from my spine to my ass.

The tailor dabbed a finger along the edge of my bruise, muttering about makeup shades and color correcting, as she lined my hazel eyes with a smoky copper eyeshadow and thick winged eyeliner. The lip stain matched the color of my dress, before she started in with the needles—a hem taped here, a thread cinched there, until I stood in front of the full-length mirror looking unmistakably like a woman about to commit war by other means.

“Red’s your color.” Her tone was clinical and detached.

She yanked one of the straps tight, cinching my waist so the dress molded to my bones. She smoothed the fabric over my hips.

“You’ll cause a scene.”

I swallowed the urge to ask if she’d ever custom-fit a dress for a corpse. She pinned one lock of my hair behind my ear, leaving the rest in loose curls cascading down my back—exposing the cut on my neck and the constellation of finger marks around my throat.

Spiked black heels finished the look. Then the tailor stepped back, appraising the result.

“A little more blood and you’d be a Botticelli painting.”

Her accent made the words sound like a hex.

Arrow appeared in the doorway as she packed up, hands in his pockets, looking me over like an auction lot about to go to the highest bidder. He didn’t bother hiding the heat in his eyes.

“Beautiful,” he said without irony. The word was a weapon.