11. Eleven #2
“So . . . what? You want me to pretend we’re in love?” I laughed. “I don’t think even Mrs. Montalto expects that miracle.”
“No. But I need you to act like you’ve accepted this.” He moved to the vanity, trailing his fingers across the polished surface. “Like you understand your place in what’s happening between our families.”
I gripped the edge of the windowsill. “My place? As your pet?”
He stepped closer, his reflection in the window growing larger until I could feel his breath on my neck.
“As my wife,” he said, the word sounding like both a threat and a promise.
“I’ll never be that,” I whispered. “Not in any way that matters.”
His hand came to rest on my shoulder, thumb pressing against a bruise Zephyr had left. “You already are. The ceremony is just a formality.”
I turned to face him, my back against the cold glass. “What do you want from me, Arrow? Really? Because if it’s just an alliance, there are easier ways.”
It wasn’t tenderness that flickered across his face, but something adjacent to it, like a predator recognizing itself in its prey.
“I want what I’ve always wanted,” he said quietly. “Control.”
“Of me?”
“Of everything.”
Laughing, the sound was hollow even to my own ears. “Good luck with that, Romanov Prince.”
He caught my chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting my face up. “You’re confusing obedience with surrender,” he said, his thumb pressing harder. “I don’t need you to love me, Harlowe. I just need you to understand that fighting me is pointless.”
I jerked my chin away, refusing to be held in place like a disobedient child. “And yet, here I am, still fighting.”
Arrow smiled as he stepped back, shaking his head. From his pocket, came a cigarette, the lighter’s click sharp. He inhaled, let the flame catch, then exhaled slowly, blowing smoke in my direction. When he spoke, his voice was silk over steel.
“You think you’re rebelling, but you’re just proving my point. Every bruise on your body, every defiant word, they’re all part of the same pattern.”
“And what pattern is that?”
“Self-destruction.” He stepped closer. “You’re not fighting me. You’re fighting yourself. The part that already knows this is inevitable.”
I wanted to slap him. To scream that he was wrong, that I’d never surrender, never accept this prison sentence disguised as a marriage. But the words stuck in my throat because beneath the rage and defiance was a sliver of truth I couldn’t face.
“The wedding isn’t far away,” he continued, his voice level. “After that, you’ll move into my home, you’ll take my name, and you’ll be mine in every way that matters to the world outside.”
“And inside?” I challenged. “What happens behind closed doors, Arrow? Do I become your punching bag? Your whore?”
“I don’t need to beat a woman into submission to feel powerful.”
“I hate you,” I said, loud enough for Frank to hear.
Maybe loud enough for the entire world.
Arrow set the cigarette on the rim of the glass and caught my chin in two fingers, keeping his touch feather-light, as if the merest additional force would betray something unplanned.
“But you’re still here.”
It was almost a question, but mostly a dare.
I shoved his hand away, and his mouth ticked into a smile, not unkind but monstrous in its certainty.
A knock at the door interrupted us. Mrs. Montalto poked her head in, her smile strained at the corners.
“I hate to interrupt, but we need to discuss the seating for the Albanians and the Kosovans. They can’t be at the same table, obviously.”
Arrow didn’t take his eyes off me. “Put the Albanians near the kitchen, the Kosovans by the exit. And make sure there’s at least three tables between them.”
“Excellent solution,” she chirped, scribbling on her clipboard. “Now, about the menu—”
“It’s fine,” Arrow cut her off. “Whatever you’ve arranged is approved.”
I could sense his dismissal, the way he cut through her list of concerns like they were beneath him. And they were. Arrow Romanov had probably ordered dozens of hits before breakfast—wedding menus were trivial by comparison.
Mrs. Montalto hesitated, clearly wanting to discuss more details, but something in his posture made her reconsider. “Of course. I’ll just . . . check on the florists, while I wait for you both to rejoin me.” She disappeared, leaving us alone again.
Turning away from Arrow, I walked to the vanity and examined my reflection in the mirror.
The woman staring back at me looked hollowed out, bruised, not just on her skin, but somewhere deeper. I touched the collar at my throat, feeling its weight.
“You’re going to try to run again,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
I met his eyes in the mirror. “Wouldn’t you?”
He moved behind me, his reflection joining mine. His hands came to rest on my shoulders, fingers spread possessively across my skin.
“Yes,” he admitted. “But I would plan it better.”
A surprised laugh escaped me. “Is that advice?”
“An observation.” His thumbs traced circles at the base of my neck. “You’re smart, Harlowe. But you’re impulsive. Reckless.”
“And you're a cold-hearted bastard.” I leaned forward, trying to escape his touch without seeming to retreat. “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? Your family needs someone who can think three moves ahead, and my family needs someone who can feel something other than contempt.”
His grip tightened, just enough to make me still. “And you think this is what—a marriage of complementary traits? Your fire to my ice?”
I held his gaze in the mirror. “I think it’s a business transaction with orgasms as the signing bonus.”
His mouth curved into a smile that never reached his eyes. “You think that’s what happens on our wedding night? That I’ll claim what’s mine?”
“Won’t you?” I scoffed, hating the way my voice betrayed me with a slight tremor.