16. Sixteen #3
“Have you ever spent even a single minute of your life not orchestrating someone else’s misery?”
My voice snagged—neither a challenge nor a plea, but something ugly and hungry that surprised us both.
He stared at me for a long moment, calculating the correct answer.
“Suffering is the only real currency left in this world,” he said at last, softly. “And I’ve never enjoyed being poor.”
I considered smashing the glass on the counter, holding the jagged edge to my wrist, and watching to see if he’d stop me or let me bleed on his marble.
I set the empty glass in the sink. It landed with a quiet clink.
I bit the inside of my cheek until copper filled my cheek, and the taste brought a thaw to the ice locked in my head.
“Don’t look so ruined,” Arrow said. “You’re exactly where you want to be.”
He said it the way a warden observes that his only inmate never tries to escape, not even when the door’s left open just to see if she’d rather starve than walk out.
“You should get some rest,” he continued. “In a bed.”
I didn’t move. “I’m fine here.”
“That wasn’t a request,” he replied, his voice taking on an edge. He pointed to the stairs.
“I don’t want to be alone right now.” The words came out smaller than I intended, but I didn’t take them back.
That caught him off guard. His expression shifted, and I glimpsed something almost human behind his mask. He recovered quickly, but not before I saw the uncertainty.
“You’re not going to try to slit your wrists with my kitchen knives?”
“Would it matter if I did?” I asked.
Arrow studied me, his head tilting slightly. “Yes.”
“Because I’m your property now? Wouldn’t want to damage the merchandise.”
“Because it would be a waste,” he said simply. “And I don’t like waste.”
My laugh echoed in the vast kitchen. “So, what now, killer? We play house until the wedding? You keep me locked up here like some twisted fairytale?”
He moved toward me, and I tensed, expecting him to grab me again. Arrow leaned against the counter beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body and smell the clean scent of his soap.
“You’re not locked up, Harlowe. The doors aren’t bolted. The guards won’t stop you. You could walk out right now if you wanted.”
“And go where?” I whispered. “Back to my father, who’ll just sell me to someone worse when you’re done with me? To La Lune Noire, where you’ll just find me again?” The tears I’d been holding back spilled down my cheeks. “There’s nowhere left to run. You’ve made sure of that.”
Arrow’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes did—a flicker of what might have been understanding.
“That’s the first honest thing you’ve said since I brought you here.”
I wiped my face with the back of my hand. “I hate you so fucking much.”
“I know.” He didn’t sound bothered by it. “But you hate yourself more.”
I flinched, unable to deny it. He saw through me with such brutal clarity it left me breathless.
“Come upstairs,” he said, not a command this time but not quite a request either.
Too exhausted to argue with him, I followed. My legs moved of their own accord, up the spiral staircase to the bedroom he’d given me.
At the doorway, he paused. “Sleep.”
“Is that it?” I whispered. “After what happened downstairs?”
“What did you think would happen, Harlowe? That I’d force you to fuck me on your first night here?”
“Isn’t that what Romanovs do? Take what they want?”
His jaw tightened. “I’m not interested in fucking women who don’t want me as badly as I want them.” He stepped back, creating space between us. “Go to bed, moya malen’kaya ved’ma. You’ve had enough trauma for one night.”
I stood in the doorway, swaying slightly. “I don’t understand you.”
“You don’t have to.” His eyes traced over my face, lingering on the bruise my father had left. “Understanding isn’t required for this arrangement.”
“And what is required?” My voice cracked.
“Survival,” he said simply. “That’s all I expect from you right now.”
Arrow turned to leave, but I caught his wrist. His muscles tensed beneath my fingers, but he didn’t pull away. I didn’t know why I’d reached for him—maybe to stop him from leaving, maybe to prove I could touch him without permission.
“Why did you really take me from my father’s house?” I asked.
He looked down at where my fingers circled his wrist. “Because I don’t share what’s mine. Not even with your father’s fists.”
The possessiveness in his voice should have disgusted me, but instead, it sent a shiver down my spine that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.
“I’m not yours yet,” I whispered.
Arrow smirked. “Keep telling yourself that.” He gently extracted his wrist from my grip. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow will be worse.”
He left me standing in the doorway, my body still humming from his touch. I listened to his steps move down the hallway. A whole minute passed before the world staggered back onto its axis.
The silence finally settled, but it wasn’t the silence of victory. It was the silence of surrender, of the last twitch after the neck breaks.