Page 156 of Arrow

* Little viper

* My fucking viper

* Little viper

33

THIRTY-THREE

HARLOWE

The doors slid open, and he was standing there. He wasn’t doubled over. He wasn’t limping. He wasn’t even winded.

He was just there. Just . . . waiting.

My breath caught in my throat as his eyes met mine, full of something not quite human. I didn’t even have time to scream. He stepped forward, a shadow in motion, and with one hand, shoved me back into the elevator. My spine slammed against the mirror. His body followed, hot and merciless, pressing me between cold glass.

“You think you can run from me?” His voice was quiet and lethal in its restraint. The doors slid shut behind him, the elevator lurching into motion, now caging us both.

“You deserved that,” I spat, chin tilted. “You had no right⁠—”

“No right?” His hand slammed against the wall beside my head, making the entire panel shudder. “I own the right. You gave it to me the second you shattered on my cock. You don’t get to run after that.”

My hands braced against his chest, but it was like trying to push a mountain. “You don’t own me, Arrow.”

He leaned in until his mouth grazed her ear, his breath fire and gravel. “Then why do you shake when I’m close, malyshka?”⁠*

I did shake. But not from fear.

From fury.

From want.

From whatever monster we summoned in each other.

“I’ll scream,” I whispered.

He smiled. It was a terrible, beautiful thing. “Do it. You know how hard I get when you scream.”

He clapped a palm over my mouth and rammed my knees wide apart, the other hand gouging the back of my scalp, pinning me to the elevator’s glass wall. He rolled his hips into mine, grinding the seam of his cock against my naked cunt, dry-humping me with a savagery so absolute I forgot the ache, the shame, even the welt blooming on my jaw from the prior impact.

The whole elevator vibrated with it. I could feel the security cam watching the raw feed of my humiliation archiving live to six data centers. I wanted to scream. I wanted to dare him, one last time, to break me wide enough that my father’s old gods would shudder.

Instead, I bit his palm, sharp and hard enough to tear through skin. He yelped in shock, and then his whole demeanor snapped. In a motion so fast it nearly fucked with my inner ear, he slammed his palm against the emergency stop button, then yanked my body away from the glass, spun me two hundred degrees, and mashed my chest up against the elevator panel.

My sweaty tits smeared the brushed steel. He wrenched my wrists behind me; one hand locked them together while his other hand fumbled with his zipper, cock already red and glossy with his latest violence.

He slammed me into the wall, his heated breath at my neck, and shoved inside my sensitive ass with a single impalement that made me scream. My cheek mashed to the cold steel wall, his cock splitting me so suddenly my knees quaked. No prep, no lube, except the leftovers smeared between my thighs—maybe from him, maybe from me, probably both, history was a collaborative mess.

Arrow didn’t fuck me there the way others might, cautiously, hesitantly, with a softening plea for permission. He did it like a confession, a handprint of force that said, “You signed up for this, and so did I, and neither of us will ever admit just how much we needed to see if it would break us.”

I gasped for air, left in my wrists twisting in his grip. He ground his bony thumb into the back of my hand, keeping me buckled against the control panel. His cock filled me, starting slowly, a measured, brutal slide, the pain blooming deep and with it, the old thrill: yes, this hurts, and fuck, yes, I want it, and god, every shiver is an apology I will never have to make. I heard him pant in my ear, hot and ragged.

“You think you can out-fuck me, Harlowe?” He leaned in, voice so low it barely survived the echo. “You think if you get ruined enough, I’ll go away?”

The question made my breathing worse, ratcheting the odd agony in my chest. I wriggled, helpless, and he hauled my wrists higher, with an efficiency that made me shake, not from restraint but the certainty he’d been planning for this since the first time he kissed me. My body fused to the wall, my eyes burning with unshed tears and something wobbling at the horizon of pleasure, and I waited for him to slow. He never did. Not for a second.

I knew this was the hammer space of sensation inside me—blinding, vaulting, brighter than the Manhattan skyline, as he fucked me with a rhythm tuned to rage, to retribution, to the entropy of our mutual destruction.