Page 150 of Arrow

“Bring your own damn tequila,” Harley teased, then licked the raw bite on my collarbone and, satisfied, peeled off into the locker room.

It took a minute for my feet to remember they could walk. It took another moment for the rest of me to remember Arrow. My body still humming from the pleasure Harley had given me, I gathered my things and stumbled out of the velvet room, legs unsteady beneath me.

The club was nearly empty now, just a few stragglers and the cleaning crew starting to sweep up the night’s debris.

“Need a ride?” Harley appeared beside me, freshly dressed in street clothes, her makeup washed off, and her hair pulled into a messy bun.

“I should go,” I said, glancing nervously toward the entrance. “I’m sure one of my fiancé’s lackeys told him I was here, and he isn’t the type to knock politely when he’s angry.”

Harley snorted. “I’ve heard the stories. Arrow Romanov doesn’t knock at all—he just appears and breaks everything in his path.” She cupped my cheek, her thumb brushing over my swollen lips. “You sure you want to go back to him tonight?”

I hesitated. The smart thing would be to crash at a hotel—let Arrow stew in his jealousy until morning. But some reckless, self-destructive part of me wanted to face him now, while I still smelled of another woman, while the evidence of my betrayal was fresh on my skin.

“I’m not hiding from him,” I said finally.

Harley’s eyes softened with pity. “You really do have a death wish.” She pressed a folded slip of paper into my palm. “My number. For when you need an escape, or a repeat performance.”

I left the club through the service alley, the back of my knees still jelly and the city’s air slicing clean and mean through my lungs. Frank loomed by the curb, emerging from a halo of vape smoke and the sputtering, half-lit sign of the adjacent bodega. He clocked me instantly, pupils splitting every inch of me—saw the bruises, the state of my blouse, the wet shimmer that policed my thighs, and the smile I was too tired to erase.

“Does he know?” I asked him.

Frank’s expression didn’t change as he met my eyes. “Of course he knows.”

I swallowed hard, tasting Harley on my tongue. “How long?”

“Since your little performance in the cage.” Frank opened the car door, his movements careful, almost gentle. “He had someone watching the club tonight.”

Of course he did. Arrow had eyes everywhere. The thought should have angered me, but instead, a sick thrill raced up my spine. I slid into the backseat, my body aching deliciously in all the places Harley had touched.

“Is he furious?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

Frank gave me a look in the rearview mirror that said more than words ever could. “He’s Arrow Romanov.”

That was answer enough.

32

THIRTY-TWO

HARLOWE

The city blurred past the window as we drove, neon smears against the dark canvas of early morning. I didn’t bother fixing my makeup or my hair. Let Arrow see exactly what I’d done, who I’d been with. Let him taste another woman on me when he kissed me.

If he kissed me.

“Good.” I shrugged.

“Careful, Principessa,⁠* you’re playing a dangerous game with a man who won’t play fair,” said Frank, but his mouth twitched.

Frank drove slowly and carefully through construction and blockades, as if he believed he could ferry me past danger if he just kept the Caddy at a low enough velocity. He took the FDR instead of the surface arteries, which meant someone had warned him to stay off major roads. The black river ate our reflection, the city above flexing in its own neon self-regard.

I steeled myself for the lecture. But Frank surprised me. His eyes in the mirror were flat and tired, no trace of judgment or lecture forming behind them. “I’m not your father,” he said. “I don’t tell you what to do.”

“You’re not Arrow, either,” I pointed out.

His mouth thinned. “No. I’m not him. That’s why you’re still breathing.”

I laughed, but it sounded hollow even to me. “You think he’d hurt me?”