Page 69 of Arrow

I stiffened. “Still in my suitcase.”

“Put it on.” His voice was quiet but firm.

“No.”

He sighed, as if dealing with a petulant child. “Harlowe, we can do this the hard way or the easy way. Your choice.”

“What’s the hard way?” I goaded. “You’ll force it around my neck in front of Mrs. Montalto and all her assistants? Make a scene in public?”

“I don’t need a scene to make you obey me,” he answered. “But I could bend you over my knee, and after I spank that tight ass of yours, I’ll put it on you myself.”

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. “You wouldn’t.”

His hand moved to my thigh, his fingers pressing into the fabric of my dress.

“Try me.”

We stared at each other for a long, tense moment, neither willing to back down. Finally, I broke the silence.

“Fine. I’ll wear your fucking collar.”

Arrow inclined his head, satisfied with the small victory. “Good choice.”

I went upstairs to my suitcase, jaw clenched so tight I thought my teeth might crack. The collar waited at the bottom, gleaming like a mockery. I lifted it, felt its weight against my palm, and remembered when Arrow had first seen me wear it, and the way his eyes had darkened.

Arrow was still waiting by the front door when I came back downstairs. His eyes immediately went to my throat, lingering on the obsidian and platinum band.

“Better,” he said.

I rolled my eyes and stomped past him to the car, where Ivan held the door open.

The drive into the city was silent. I watched Arrow from the corner of my eye, noting how he seemed perfectly at ease, scrolling through his phone, occasionally answering texts with quick, efficient movements of his thumbs. I wondered what kind of business he was handling, and who was dying today because Arrow Romanov decided they should.

When we arrived at the atelier, a sleek, unmarked building in the heart of Manhattan, Arrow helped me out of the car.

“Remember,” he murmured, his lips close to my ear. “Behave.”

I didn’t dignify his reminder with an answer, just lifted my chin and marched through the glass doors like I was heading to my own execution.

Mrs. Montalto descended upon us immediately, her face flushed with excitement. “Miss Virelli! And Mr. Romanov! Right on time!” Her eyes darted to the collar at my throat, widening slightly before she composed herself. “I’ve compiled a beautiful array of dresses for you to choose from. Each one has been specifically designed only for you, Miss Virelli, just like Mr. Romanov requested.”

I shot him a look. “You had dresses designed for me?”

His eyes found mine. “I had nothing to do with the design process. I just gave them your measurements.”

“And how did you get those?” I demanded.

“I have my ways.”

Mrs. Montalto clapped her hands together, oblivious to the tension crackling between us. “Let’s get started, shall we? The dressing room is prepared, and I have champagne chilling.”

I followed her through the atelier, past mannequins draped in half-finished couture and workstations where seamstresses bent over intricate beadwork.

The private fitting room was opulent, adorned with creams and golds, with a circular platform surrounded by mirrors and plush gold velvet chairs positioned for spectators.

“Mr. Romanov, would you like to wait here while we get your bride into the first gown?” Mrs. Montalto gestured to one of the chairs.

“I would,” he said, settling himself with the casual authority of a man who expected the world to accommodate him.