Page 14 of Arrow

No knock.

This would be her first lesson. The door yielded beneath my touch, swinging open to a room bathed in half-light. The curtains were drawn, and the only illumination came from a single lamp by the bed. The room smelled of stale alcohol and expensive perfume.

I found her sprawled across the bed, her dark hair fanned out against white sheets. She wore a silk slip that had ridden up her thighs, exposing bruises in various stages of healing. Some were fresh—purple and angry—while others had faded to a sickly yellow. The marks of her rebellion, mapped across her skin.

She didn’t stir when I entered, though I knew she was awake by the tension that rippled through her body. Playing dead wouldn’t save her. Not from me.

“Get out,” she said without opening her eyes, her voice raw and cracked at the edges.

I ignored her command, moving deeper into the room, taking inventory of the chaos—empty bottles, discarded clothes, a small silver tray with the remnants of white powder.

Self-destruction as an art form.

“This is pathetic,” I said, my voice cutting through the heavy silence.

Her eyes snapped open then, bloodshot and furious. “Fuck you.”

Mascara smudged beneath her eyes, lips bitten raw. Beautiful, even in her rebellion. I’d never been one for pretty things—they broke too easily and demanded too much care. But Harlowe was different. Her beauty was weaponized, a distraction from the knife she’d gladly slide between your ribs if given half a chance.

I smiled, enjoying the spark of life in her gaze. Even now, drowning in her own misery, Harlowe Virelli refused to bow her head. It was what made her valuable. Her father had been right about one thing: she wouldn’t break easily. She would need to be unmade, piece by piece, and rebuilt in my image.

Crossing to the bed, I sat on the edge, watching her scramble away from me like a wounded animal. Her eyes, even clouded with substances, tracked my every movement with animal awareness.

“I told you to eat,” I said, my voice deceptively soft.

“And I told you to go fuck yourself.” She pushed herself up, the silk slip sliding further up her thigh. “You don’t own me yet.”

“Yet.” I smiled, enjoying the word. “At least you understand the inevitable.”

I reached out and caught her wrist before she could pull away, my fingers finding her pulse. It raced beneath my touch—a frightened bird’s heartbeat. She tried to yank free, but I tightened my grip, just enough to demonstrate the futility.

“Let go of me,” she hissed.

“When was the last time you ate something that wasn’t liquid?” I asked, ignoring her demand. My thumb traced the prominent bone of her wrist, blue veins visible beneath pale skin, mapping her fragility.

“I’m not hungry.” She stared at me with hatred so pure it was almost admirable.

“I didn’t ask if you were hungry. I asked when you last ate.”

She looked away, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. I could see the calculation behind her eyes, weighing defiance against the inevitable. My thumb pressed harder against her pulse point.

“Two days,” she finally muttered. “Happy now?”

I moved to her closet, sliding open the door to reveal rows of designer clothes, each piece more expensive than the last. I selected a simple black dress and tossed it onto the bed beside her.

“Thirty minutes,” I repeated. “Get dressed.”

“Or what?” She laughed, a brittle sound that caught in her throat. “You’ll drag me out naked? That’d be great for the Romanov prince’s image.”

“Or I’ll strip you, bathe you, and dress you myself. And trust me, Harlowe, you won’t enjoy my methods.”

Her eyes widened fractionally, the first genuine reaction I’d gotten since entering the room.

She believed me. Good.

“This isn’t a negotiation,” I added, moving toward the door. “This is your life now. The sooner you accept that, the easier it will be.”

“Nothing concerning you will ever be easy,” she spat.