Page 97 of Arrow

He leaned in. “You’re a quick learner, Bambina,”⁠* my father whispered, breath hot against my ear. “I’m glad to see you’ve finally accepted your place. The Romanovs have always been good at . . . breaking things.”

The flash of teeth in my father’s smile was chemical, and so quick, I almost doubted it had happened.

“Congratulations to the happy couple,” he said, and then to me, “You look stunning in Romanov colors, Bella.”⁠*

I lifted my glass to him, made the world’s most delicate middle finger with my ring finger, and drank half of it. Arrow watched the exchange, eyes trained on the perimeter, and said nothing until my father drifted away into a sea of legal rivals and silent enemies.

The room suddenly felt too hot, the dress too tight. I drained my champagne glass and immediately snagged another from a passing waiter. Arrow watched me with amusement as I gulped half of it down.

“What did he say to you?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

He processed this, a twitch at the corner of his eye, a crack in the seamless façade. I wanted to add something, shove a stick in his spokes, but then the mayor’s wife floated over—a teenage queen with nails lacquered to chemical razors, and poured her body between us with the desperation of a drowning woman reaching the last raft.

“I simply must congratulate you both!” she squealed, eyes flickering over my dress. “All of Manhattan is obsessed—Virelli and Romanov, finally united.” She pinched my elbow too hard, whispering, “Do you adore him? I’d say he’s a catch, but I’m told it’s more like a snare.”

Her laughter was obnoxious. I saw her watching Arrow, the way a dying animal watches the slow turn of a hunter’s gun. He disengaged her with one hand, the barest touch at her wrist, and she went pliant, drawn to the next circle of important men like iron to a lodestone.

“Your enemies multiply in spring, don’t they?” I murmured at him, grabbing another champagne flute as a waiter’s tray passed. “Behold the mating ritual of the Upper East.”

“Vivienne Costas.” He smirked, an arctic-gray gaze fixed on the crowd as he scanned for threats. “Her husband is three months from indictment, so she’s lining up new alliances.” He turned to me, tracking the arch of my shoulder. “Sound familiar?”

“I’m not shopping for a better man,” I shot back, swirling the glass so it sloshed over the lip. “Just casing the scene.”

He grinned, nearly playful. “You’re the only one in this room who isn’t for sale, Harlowe. That’s why they all want to watch what happens to you.” His fingers traced my spine—subtle, proprietary, neither comforting nor threatening—and with the other, he reclaimed the neck of my champagne and lifted it to his mouth, draining the last in a single, swallowing gulp.

Bastard. The word formed in my head, but my body wasn’t listening. His touch burned a line down my back, and I hated myself for the way my breathing shifted, shallow and deliberate.

This is what he does. This is a trap. He made possession feel like a choice. Made me complicit in my own collaring by making it feel less like restraint and more like certainty.

My skin responded before my brain could mount a defense, nerves lighting up at the weight of his hand. I wanted to step away. Wanted to throw the glass in his face. Instead, I stood there while he touched me like he already owned the air I was breathing, and the worst part—the part that kept me awake at night—was that some treacherous part of me wanted him to be right.

“Arrow!” a deep voice behind me boomed.

I turned to see two men approaching us, their faces beaming with big grins. Both had dark hair like Arrow, one with moss-green eyes, and the other with eyes the color of emeralds. Both were tall, muscular, and covered in tattoos that peeked up from their collars and from the hems of their cuffs.

The emerald-eyed one clapped Arrow across the shoulders with a violence that made several drinks nearby shudder in their glasses. “You finally domesticate her or just tie her to the bedpost?”

Arrow smiled. “Harlowe, this is Atlas King—one of my best friends, an associate, and a pain in my ass.”

Atlas gave me a once-over, eyebrows raised in open approval.

“Stunning. Like something you’d pull from the wreckage of a train, then mount to the wall.”

He squeezed my hand, the bones of my knuckles grating together, and for a second, I thought he meant to break them. He let go and winked, as if we both enjoyed the same private joke about suffering.

“Where’s Luna?”

“At home with her feet up,” he replied. “She said there’s no way in hell she was going to be able to fit her swollen feet into any respectable heels.”

“Atlas’s fiancée, Luna, is eight months pregnant,” Arrow clarified to me.

“Can’t say I blame her.” I smiled.

“Orion Drayke,” Arrow said, motioning to the other man.

He matched Atlas and Arrow in height. Every inch of him was braced, attentive, and coiled tight as a spring. He nodded at me, eyes bright with calculation, and I saw a sliver of sympathy there. I’d seen that look before, in the mirror. The look of someone counting down to their own reckoning.