Page 105 of Arrow

“Let me know when you figure it out.”

He laughed—that genuine, unguarded sound that made him seem almost human. “I’m going to destroy you, Harlowe.”

“Get in line,” I countered.

Arrow continued to move me through the steps with absolute control. His grip didn’t waver on my waist, his thigh directed mine through each turn, and this close, I tasted the champagne on him. He wasn’t performing for anyone—he was demonstrating ownership. Every eye in the ballroom watched what he did to me, watched how easily he moved me where he wanted.

“Is this all foreplay to you, or just the means to an end?” I asked, letting my nails sink lightly into the tight swell of muscle at his shoulder. “If it’s a war, you can say so.”

He feathered his palm over my lower back, gliding us in a tight circle, his mouth too close for anyone watching to know whether he was threatening me, worshiping me, or both.

“War is ugly. But I do my best work when they’re all watching, hoping for blood.”

He dipped me unexpectedly, so abruptly my foot nearly went out, but he caught me in a steel trap, his hand hot and unyielding along my spine.

He straightened me, smoothed the static from my hair, then leaned in so the whole front row saw the promise of teeth on my neck, the whisper not meant for the crowd.

“But you want to know the worst part?”

“Always.”

“I haven’t decided if I want to break you or keep you just the way you are.” He let the silence hang while the waltz cycled to a crescendo, as if he’d won a coin toss with my name tattooed on both sides. “That’s your genius, Harlowe. You make me want to do both at once. No one’s ever managed that.”

Our orbit became the room’s new center. Maybe it was the alcohol, or the high of being watched. It likely had nothing to do with the Romanov king looking at me like he would devour me, and I’d thank him after. But the longer his hands grazed up my bare spine, and his hard dick pushed against my stomach, resisting him became harder.

Letting my lips graze his ear as he spun me, I asked, “Do you want to fuck me, or destroy me more?”

He smiled, so wide the dimple sharpened to a pit. “Why not both?”

I bit his ear, a warning at first, then a real bite, hard enough that his breath caught and he stopped us in the middle of the dance floor.

“You can bite harder, little viper.”

He shifted his grip, trading the old ballroom frame for a true two-handed chokehold that, if he had wanted, could have snapped my neck in front of all assembled. His palm pressed hard at the base of my skull, jaw cupped in the groove of his thumb, before his lips crashed against mine.

Cameras flashed.

I let myself be kissed, molten and brutal, his mouth grinding mine wide open as the city’s oldest enemies watched and pretended not to ogle. The taste of him was salt and dark berries—he’d been drinking, too—and the tongue he forced into my mouth was a lecture.

This is power, this is what you’re marrying, this is me putting my body in your mouth so you never forget where you belong.

Shuddering, but not in defeat, I hooked my hand into his hair, tangled it at the root, and then bit—really bit—until he jerked back with a low sound that wasn’t quite a moan. His mouth was glossy, smeared with lipstick, and he worked the bite mark on his tongue slowly, testing the sting of it, eyes locked on me the whole time.

“Good girl,” he breathed, hand settling at my throat.

When the music stopped, he pulled me close and dipped me deep. Then he straightened me up, brushed a strand of hair from my face, and led me off the floor without a word.

The room exhaled.

Men whispered, and women watched me more than they watched the stage. Waiters kept my glass full, and Arrow let them, always just enough behind to let me feel in control, but never so much that I could lose the taste of danger at the back of my throat.

* No, you are my prize.

23

TWENTY-THREE

HARLOWE