Page 118 of Arrow

He bent close, so close I could see the blood rim of my last bite in perfect, defiant geometry under his jaw. His lips caught mine in a possessive kiss, making sure everyone watching knew I belonged to him. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark.

“Remember what I said last night,” he murmured against my ear. “You’re the most dangerous thing in any room.”

I shivered. “Even with your mark around my neck?”

“Especially with my mark around your neck.” His thumb traced the chain, sliding down to where the A rested. “It makes you untouchable to everyone but me.”

“Why do I feel like I’m a science project?” I teased.

“You always assume you’re the experiment, Harlowe,” he murmured. “But you never ask what the drug does to the scientist.”

Huffing, I tried not to look shaken. “That’s because they usually implode before the subjects get a chance to compare notes.”

He backed me against the pillar, arms boxing me in. “I have no intention of dying first.”

“Relax. You’re too mean to die,” I shot back. “Besides, someone has to teach the offspring sarcasm.”

The words surprised me as much as they surprised him.

Offspring? Get a fucking grip, Harlowe. Jesus fuck.

Arrow let out a bite-sized laugh, almost a bark, and brushed the hair off my face before leading me to a blacked-out Range Rover. He opened the passenger door, and I climbed in. Then he shut the door and got into the driver’s seat.

“Wait, are you my driver today?”

Starting the Range Rover with a flick of his wrist, the dashboard came to life. “Consider it a bonus.” He winked. “Don’t worry, Ivan and Frank are following. Besides, I wanted to see you in daylight. See if you’d melt.” Arrow checked his mirrors, lips twitching with a private joke.

I watched the manor shrink in the side mirror, haunted already—a gothic afterimage I’d never quite shake. I couldn’t help but smirk.

“You know I’ve been in the sun before, right? I did normal girl shit at least five times in my life.”

He merged onto the highway, foot heavy on the accelerator. “What, like shopping and brunch?”

The contempt was textbook, but also weirdly fond.

“Crime scenes. Rehab. The morgue, once, for a field trip. My father thought it would build character.” I held his gaze until he looked away first, and mimicked his smirk. “You should try it sometime.”

Arrow shifted gears, always in control, always with that sense of a hand ready to snap to your throat if you made the wrong move. We drove through the city, over the bridge, down into the canyons of buildings where even noon was a shade of blue twilight.

He parked in a garage beneath a modern slab of polished chrome and black windows. It reminded me of the kind of penthouse a Bond villain would rent out while negotiating nuclear ransom. Inside, the lobby was silent, except for the drone of security cameras and the echo of our footsteps. Arrow flashed his keycard, and the elevator doors yawned open.

At floor fifty-two, he guided me out with the same light grip he’d used all night. Not a leash but a calculated promise. Try to run, but only if you want to see me catch you.

The door across the hall opened before we reached it, a silent shadow greeting us—Orion, wearing black clothing and a bandaged forearm, his wolfish grin undiminished by any evidence of pain.

“Nice to see the happy couple,” he drawled, and cocked his head. “Try not to cut his dick off before dinner. It’s his only friend.”

Arrow rolled his eyes. “I’ll see you downstairs at nine, fucker.”

Orion gave me a two-finger salute before gliding away into the darkened hallway. Arrow punched in the passcode, and the penthouse opened up like a planetarium, glass and steel, the city spread out fifty stories below in the fading light.

He led me past a jungle of houseplants, each with a black label printed in Russian, and a taxidermied falcon on the mantel, straight to an open living room where the world’s largest sectional circled a massive, stone fireplace.

“Make yourself at home,” Arrow said, his voice echoing off the glass. He unzipped his coat and tossed it across the sofa.

Kicking off my shoes, I wandered, taking in the hungover glamour of a modern city lair. The penthouse was designed with angled glass and ultramarine marble. There were fresh roses set in a vase the size of a baptismal font, and every visible surface reflected a piece of the storm slate sky ribboning the river.

I drifted to the window and watched the hustle and bustle of the city below. The thought of falling all the way to Second Avenue would once have been the only comfort in a place like this. Now, watching the clouds skirmish, daring the wind to push the building into a new angle of collapse, felt almost peaceful.