Arrow

15. Fifteen

FIFTEEN

HARLOWE

The ride was silent. City lights flickered past in a wet mosaic, the windows sealed tight against the world’s stink. Arrow sprawled comfortably across the leather, legs wide, head tilted—a wolf at rest.

What amazed me was the lack of gloating. If he saw tonight’s coup as a victory, he wasn’t celebrating it.

His hands rested loose at his knees, eyes fixed on the road ahead before I could so much as breathe out the word “fuck.”

I pressed myself against the door, rolling my shoulders to find the point where the cold would numb my shoulder blade. His attention lasered back to me, but he said nothing.

He didn’t have to.

I tried desperately to fight the hot tears that flooded my eyes, but they spilled down my cheeks anyway.

Turning to the window, I balled my hands in my lap, nails digging half-moons into my thighs—anything to distract from the pain settling in my soul.

Not for my father. Not for my life.

For Frank.

That would be the last time I saw him; I knew it. And the thought burrowed deep in my stomach, until I thought I might vomit. I rolled down the window, letting the night air bite at my skin.

The driver, Ivan—one of those men born and bred never to smile—took us over the bridge without a look back. Manhattan behind us, New York City ahead, and me between the two.

When I tried to shift closer to the door, putting even more distance between us, Arrow’s hand landed on my knee, fingers spread possessively across the fabric of my dress.

“Don’t.”

I froze, my body betraying me with a small shiver. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t retreat into your head where I can’t follow.”

Laughing felt like the only sane response to the insanity of it all.

“Are you fucking kidding me? Is that what you really think I’m doing? Retreating?”

“You’re calculating exits, weighing options. Wondering if you could survive jumping from a moving vehicle.”

I hated that he could read me so easily. That he knew the exact trajectory of my thoughts. “I’m not that desperate.”

“Not desperate.” He paused, a ghost of an amused smile playing at his lips. “Stubborn.”

If Arrow wanted a show, he’d have to throttle it out of me. Maybe that was his plan all along—make me drive myself mad, then cut the leash with the smallest possible motion. Maybe he’d turn on me at a red light and snap my spine for fun.

But I doubted it. He was the type who enjoyed a slow kill.

He’d make it last.

The car slowed, turning off the main road onto a tree-lined drive.

We passed through wrought-iron gates that opened silently at our approach, then closed behind us with a finality that made my stomach clench.

Ahead stood a prefab glass fortress, isolated at the end of a private drive.

The monster’s house looked like a Bond villain’s wet dream, with glass walls and slate, perched above the Hudson. Even the landscaping screamed money and damage control. There were cameras at the eaves, and a wolfhound paced the perimeter, its fur slicked to silver by the rain.

Arrow exited first, then held the door open for me. When I hesitated, his patience visibly thinned.

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Harlowe.” His voice was low enough that only I could hear. “But either way, you’re going inside.”

I stepped out of the car, my legs unsteady beneath me. The night air was cold against my tear-stained cheeks.

As I stood there, taking in my new reality, Arrow’s hand pressed at the small of my back, guiding me toward the entrance.

The entryway was bare, a single black spiral staircase winding to the upper floor, light pooling on each step. Beside the door, he stripped off his suit jacket, tossed it to the banister, and shook rain from his hair like a dog.

It was somehow both minimalist and excessive, like Arrow himself. The foyer opened to towering ceilings, glass walls framing the Hudson River beyond. No family photos, no personal touches. Only sleek furniture and abstract art that probably cost more than most people’s homes.

Everything was monochromatic with occasional splashes of crimson that seemed too deliberate to be anything but a message.

I shivered, suddenly aware of how exposed I felt in this crystalline fortress.

Arrow’s men hauled my bags through the entrance, moving with silent efficiency before melting into the shadows of the house.

“Welcome home,” Arrow said, his voice carrying no warmth, just finality.

I swallowed hard. “This isn’t my home.”

“It is now.” He rolled up his sleeves. “You hungry?”

The casual question after everything that had happened tonight made me want to scream. I stood frozen, in the center of the foyer, hands clenched at my sides.

“Where am I supposed to sleep?”

“With me.”

His response was immediate, matter-of-fact.

“No,” I said, taking an instinctive step back. “I want my own room.”

He studied me, head tilted slightly. “Upstairs, first door on the right. Your things will be there.” He paused. “For now.”

The implied threat wasn’t lost on me. This was temporary—a concession he was making only because he was allowing it. For now. I was still the bride, the Virelli property, the bargaining chip who needed to be intact for the wedding.

But after that . . .

“Fine,” I said, trying to sound indifferent despite the tremor in my voice. “Show me where.”

He gestured toward the stairs but didn’t move to lead me. It was a test.

I hesitated, then walked past him, feeling his eyes on me as I climbed the spiral staircase. Each step felt like a surrender, my heels clicking against the metal like a countdown.

Closed doors lined the upstairs hallway, all identical in their minimalist design. I found the first door on the right and pushed it open.

The room was large but sparse, with a king-sized bed with crisp white linens dominating the space. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the Hudson, too, the city lights reflected in the dark water below.

There was a dresser, a small sitting area, and an en-suite bathroom visible through an open door. My bags had already been placed at the foot of the bed.

I heard his footsteps behind me, then felt his presence fill the doorway.

“This is temporary,” he said, leaning against the frame. “Until after the wedding.”

“And then what?” I asked, not turning to face him.

“Then you’ll sleep in my bed.”

The bluntness of his statement sent a chill down my spine—not entirely from fear. I turned to look at him, jaw tight.

“I’d rather sleep on the floor.”

“We’ll see.” He pushed off the doorframe. “Bathroom’s stocked. There are clothes in the closet that should fit you.”

“You planned this.” I looked around the room with new eyes. “You knew I’d be here.”

“I’ve planned for every contingency where you’re concerned.” He stepped into the room, closing the distance between us. “Your father hitting you just . . . accelerated the timeline.”

I backed away until my legs hit the edge of the bed. “Like you care.”

“I don’t like damaged goods.” His voice was eerily calm. “Especially when I’m the one who paid for them.”

The words stung more than I wanted to admit. “Ah, yes, another acquisition for the great Romanov prince.”

Sweeping into a mock bow, I let the gesture speak for itself.

“You’ll stay here.”

Arrow’s voice was clean of malice, but his posture told the rest. He leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed, making it clear I wasn’t allowed to close the door—not tonight, maybe not ever.

Not unless he closed it first.

“You can’t keep me prisoner here,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

His mouth curved into something adjacent to a smile. “Prisoner? No. You’re my fiancée, Harlowe. The bride-to-be. The future Mrs. Romanov.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, needing something between us, even if it was just my own limbs.

“I won’t fuck you.”

“I didn’t ask you to.” He stepped fully into the room now, his presence filling the space until I could barely breathe. “But you should know that this room doesn’t lock from the inside.”

My heart hammered against my ribs.

“Why would it?”

He moved to the window, looking out at the dark river below. His reflection stared back at me.

“You’ll find I’ve thought of everything, Harlowe. The windows are bulletproof and don’t open more than six inches. The security system registers every door that opens, and my men patrol the grounds twenty-four seven.”

“So, I am a prisoner.”

“You’re protected.” He turned to face me. “From your enemies. From your father. From yourself.”

Bitterness colored my laugh. “My hero.”

Arrow closed the distance between us. I tensed, expecting violence, but he only reached past me to the nightstand, opening the drawer to reveal a gleaming silver gun.

He lifted it, checking that it was loaded, then set it on the nightstand within easy reach.

“Sleep well, moya malen’kaya gadyuka,”* he murmured.

Leaving without another word, he pulled the door closed behind him—though I noticed he didn’t fully shut it.

It remained open a crack, just enough for me to know I was being watched.

The gun sat on the nightstand.

I stared at it, wondering if it was a test.

If I touched it, would alarms sound? Would he burst in and punish me?

My finger traced the cool metal barrel, carefully, as if the gun might bite back. It was real. Loaded. He’d left a loaded gun within my reach.

Either he was insane, or he was testing me.

The gun’s weight filled my hand. I could end this right now. I could put a bullet in his skull while he slept and run. But even as I thought it, I knew it was impossible. His men would hunt me down. My father would find me.

There was nowhere to go.

I set the gun back in the drawer and closed it, suddenly exhausted. The events of the day crashed over me like a wave, and I sank onto the edge of the bed.

My fingers trembled as I untied my heels, letting them fall to the floor with a dull thud.

Minimalist as the bedroom was, the bathroom had black tile and chrome fixtures that gleamed in the low light. I’d been traded between territories––a spoil of war with no say in my fate.

The shower hissed to life under my trembling hands, and I stripped off my clothes, letting them fall in a heap on the floor. The water was scalding, just how I liked it.

Steam rose in thick clouds as I stood motionless, letting the spray pound against my shoulders until my skin flushed an angry pink. I scrubbed myself raw, as if I could wash away the fingerprints of every man who’d ever touched me without permission.

When I emerged, a towel wrapped around my body, I half-expected to find Arrow waiting in the bedroom. But the room was empty, the door still cracked open just as he’d left it.

Rummaging through my bags, I found a silk nightgown at the bottom. The cool fabric slid over my heated skin like a mercy.

The window beckoned me. Six inches of freedom—that’s all Arrow allowed.

My fingertips pressed against the glass, testing the narrow gap, and below, the Hudson became a ribbon of black reflecting city lights like fallen stars. I wondered if I could squeeze through that narrow opening if I were desperate enough.

Probably not without breaking bones.

The bed swallowed me—sheets cool against my skin, my racing thoughts warring with my body’s demand for sleep. My eyes grew heavy, and I drifted off to the sound of rain against the windows.

Exhaustion won.

10 p.m. glowed on the nightstand when I jolted awake, heart thundering. The room held only darkness and the faint glow of city lights through glass, and the absolute certainty that I wasn’t alone.

A shadow moved by the door.

“You talk in your sleep,” Arrow said quietly.

I sat up, clutching the sheets to my chest. “What are you doing in here?”

“Checking on you.” He stepped into the room, moonlight catching his profile. He’d changed into sweatpants and a thin T-shirt that clung to his chest. “You were screaming.”

“Was I?”

I couldn’t remember my dreams, just the lingering sense of terror.

Arrow moved to the edge of the bed—not sitting, just hovering there like some dark sentinel. He waited for me to ask what he wanted.

So I asked, my voice still scraped raw from before.“Why didn’t you kill him?

He didn’t pretend to not understand. “I don’t need another dead Virelli.” No pride in it, no mercy, just tactical clarity, like he was reciting a rule of the jungle so obvious it barely counted as an answer. “You’re harder to break if you hate me for it.”

I turned to face him, my arms protectively knotted just beneath my sternum. “Is that the point, then?” I said. “To break me?”

“You were born broken. I’m just refining the art.”

“I’ll save you the trouble. It’s hereditary.”

Arrow smiled with one corner of his mouth, but there was nothing kind in it.

He let the tension coil.

“You’re stronger than him.” A nod toward the thumbprint on my cheek, bruised deep and blue. “Giovanni’s hands couldn’t tame you. Why would you think mine would be any different?”

“Because you’re a Romanov,” I whispered back, then snapped my lips shut at the confession I’d let slip out.

His fingers found the bare skin of my hands, turning them over, exposing the scars shaped like barbed wire on my palms. He traced them in a motion more clinical than caress.

“We’re not the ones who start the cycles,” he murmured. “Just the ones who finish them.”

The healed ridges became a map beneath his thumbs—traced with a reverence that belonged to no man capable of strangling me on the marble without hesitation. The contradiction stopped my breath.

“Death is easy,” he said quietly. “Living is the punishment.”

I bared my teeth, hating the tremor in my jaw. “Is that what this is? A punishment for being born a Virelli? You want me to fear you, is that it, Romanov?”

Arrow considered the question.

“Fear is a flavor. But you taste better when you’re angry.” He bent his head, and I tensed for the bite, the blow, the old, rehearsed violence.

He brushed his mouth to the bruise just under my jaw, a pressure so soft it burned only in memory.

“I don’t want a lamb, Harlowe.”

“Good,” I threw back. “Because I bite.”

A rumbling sound vibrated against my chest that sounded like approval and satisfaction all wrapped into one. He stepped away, breaking whatever thread he’d stretched between us.

“I made dinner,” he announced, already halfway out the door. “Don’t make me come get you.”

He left me standing in the quiet, the echo of his breath against my neck a brand more permanent than any chain. My hands trembled as I drew the curtains. I padded to the bathroom, and splashed cold water on my face, the chill creeping into my arteries, freezing something ugly in place.

I wanted to feel nothing, but I accidentally felt everything.

* My little viper