Arrow

Prologue

HARLOWE

Inever believed in monsters, until I met one who wore his suit like a confession and silence like a crown.

Arrow Romanov.

You don’t marry a man like that, you survive him. If you’re lucky.

And I am not lucky.

His name alone drips with blood—Romanov. The last thread of a dying dynasty, clinging to power by cutting deals with devils like my father. But he doesn’t need a kingdom to rule. He walks into a room and people bow without realizing they’re already on their knees.

He’s beautiful in the way poison is beautiful. Smooth. Lethal. Slow to burn, but always fatal, and I hate him.

God, I hate him.

Not just because I’m being sold to him like a peace treaty wrapped in silk and rage. Not just because he looked at me like a thing he could break the first time our eyes met. I hate him because of what his family did.

No one speaks of it, at least, not in daylight, and not where the Virellis do business. But I remember. I was sixteen, and the Romanovs had a shipment my father wanted—one that Arrow’s uncle had stolen. Retaliation followed, as it always does in this world.

Swift.

Brutal.

Biblical.

Final.

And then, it got personal.

They sent a message.

My brother.

In pieces.

Tied in barbed wire, his tongue cut out, and his hands nailed to a crucifix made of fence posts.

He was left at our door like a dog that ran away and got too bold.

Romanov blood was behind it. Whether Arrow himself pulled the trigger or not doesn’t matter.

His family signed the order in vodka and vengeance.

And when I looked into his eyes after it happened—when they forced us to be in the same room months later—he didn’t flinch. He didn’t apologize. He didn’t look away.

He smirked.

Like grief was beneath him. Like I was something amusing. Like I was already his.

So, no, I don’t care that my father is desperate, believing this marriage will unite our families. I don’t care if my father says peace matters more than pain. I don’t care how expensive the dress is or how beautiful Arrow Romanov looks in a suit.

I will never love him.

I will never forgive him.

And when the time comes, I will ruin him from the inside out.

Let him marry me.

Let him kiss me with blood on his hands.

Let him think he’s won.

Because I am the daughter of Giovanni Virelli.

And I was raised by wolves.

I do not forget.

And I do not forgive.

Especially not a Romanov.