Page 18 of Arrow

Arrow smiled, the expression never reaching his eyes. “Cartier. Fifth Avenue. They’re expecting us.”

“Nothing says ‘true love’ like overpriced jewelry picked out at gunpoint,” I muttered.

His mouth twitched in amusement. “No one’s holding a gun to your head, Harlowe.”

“Only a metaphorical one,” I said, staring out the window as Manhattan blurred past. The city looked different today, sharper somehow, as if my impending doom had given everything a new edge.

We rode in silence for several blocks. I felt him watching me, though—studying me like I was some rare specimen under glass. It made my skin crawl.

“You know, most women would be thrilled to marry into the Romanov family.”

I turned to him, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. “Most women haven’t had their brother returned to them in pieces.”

Something flickered across his face—not guilt, Arrow Romanov didn’t seem capable of that—but something close to recognition.

“That was . . . unfortunate,” he said, as if discussing a delayed flight rather than my brother’s mutilation.

“Unfortunate?” I spat the word back at him. “Is that what you call it when you nail someone’s hands to a cross? When you cut out their tongue, slit their throat, and wrap them in barbed wire? Unfortunate?”

He looked at me, his expression unchanged. “I didn’t kill your brother.”

“Your family did—your blood. Your name.”

His eyes held mine, unflinching. “My uncle’s men killed your brother. I was seventeen.”

“And that absolves you?” I leaned forward, close enough to see the flecks of silver in his gray eyes.

The car slowed as we approached Cartier, its iconic storefront gleaming even under the overcast sky. My stomach twisted into knots. This was really happening. Soon, I’d be Mrs. Arrow Romanov. The thought made me physically ill.

“I don’t want to do this,” I whispered, hating how vulnerable I sounded.

Something almost human crossed his face. Not sympathy, exactly. More like . . . understanding.

“We rarely get what we want in this world,” he said. “We get what we’re given.”

The car stopped. Arrow adjusted his cuffs—a gesture I was beginning to recognize as his version of a nervous tic, though I doubted he’d ever admit to such human weakness.

“We’ll be quick,” he said. “Choose whatever you like. Price is irrelevant.”

“How generous.” I rolled my eyes. “Buying me off with blood diamonds.”

His hand closed around my wrist as I reached for the door handle, his grip firm but not painful. “One more thing,” he said, voice low enough that the driver couldn’t hear. “In public, we present a united front. Save your hatred for when we’re alone.”

I wrenched my arm away. “I wouldn’t want to embarrass the Romanov Prince.”

The Cartier store had been cleared for our visit. A nervous-looking manager greeted us at the door, bowing slightly as Arrow guided me inside with his hand hovering at the small of my back—not touching, but close enough that I could feel the heat of him through my dress.

“Mr. Romanov, Miss Virelli,” the manager said, his smile too bright to be genuine. “We’re honored to have you. Please, follow me.”

He led us to a private room in the back, where velvet trays of rings glittered under carefully positioned lights. Champagne waited in an ice bucket, two flutes already poured. Arrow pulled out my chair, the perfect gentleman, and I sat stiffly, refusing to touch the champagne.

“I’ve selected some pieces based on your preferences, Mr. Romanov,” the manager said, gesturing to the display.

Of course, the smug bastard had preferences.

“Show us the platinum bands,” Arrow instructed, taking the seat beside me. His thigh brushed against mine, and I shifted away immediately, my skin burning even through the fabric of my dress.

“I don’t want platinum,” I said, just to be contrary.