17. Seventeen
SEVENTEEN
HARLOWE
The guest bed swallowed me whole that night, its softness an insult to my pride. Morning arrived with the scent of coffee drifting upstairs.
Arrow was nowhere in sight when I tiptoed to the kitchen.
Sunlight filtered through the glass, making every pore and line on my hands stand out.
The coffee burned going down, bitter enough to feel like penance, then the bathroom called me back upstairs.
After relieving myself and washing my hands, the mirror above the sink held my attention. My eyes traced the echo of his grip in the swelling at my throat. It occurred to me that, not long from now, there would probably be more bruises than skin.
I brushed my teeth, spit into the marble basin, and wondered what Arrow would look like with all his fingers broken. The fantasy was vivid, but it did nothing to shrink the possibility that, eventually, I’d let him break me first.
The day stretched on, and I spent it alone. No television, no phone, no signal. By noon, I stalked the perimeter of Arrow’s house like an animal, searching for a flaw. Every door was coded, every window mirrored, but none of it felt like a prison.
Arrow had given me enough freedom to come and go within my cage, so long as I never lost sight of the cameras blinking in the corner. I tested the locks anyway, pressing my ear to the glass, trying to imagine footsteps coming for me, or a shout, or the whine of tires on the gravel out back.
Hours passed without him. Dusk arrived first, flooding the rooms with long shadows, and then he followed—entering from the garage while I scavenged the kitchen. He wore a black T-shirt and jeans, humming a low, fractured melody, his face flushed from the cold.
He washed his hands at the sink, and I stared at the veins on his arms. He didn’t look up at me until he dried his hands on a linen towel and flicked the light over the island.
“Harlowe.”
His voice caught me off guard. I’d been so lost in my own head that I hadn’t noticed him watching me from the doorway.
“What?” I aimed for boredom, not surprise.
“You need to eat something real.” He moved to the refrigerator and pulled out chicken breasts, vegetables, and pasta. “Not just coffee and whatever scraps you’ve been picking at all day.”
Arms crossed, I leaned into the counter’s edge. “Playing house already? How domestic.”
The barb landed nowhere. As Arrow began preparing dinner, his hands moved with the same precision he’d used on my body the night before, and I hated how my skin remembered.
“The wedding planner called,” he said casually, as if discussing the weather. “She wants to confirm your dress fitting tomorrow.”
My stomach twisted. “I’m not going.”
“You are.” He sliced through a red pepper with a single, clean stroke. “And you’ll be pleasant about it.”
“And if I’m not?” I countered.
He looked up, his eyes finding mine. “I’ll have someone else pick a dress for you. Maybe Katerina would like to choose.”
I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. “You’re a bastard.”
“So I’ve been told.” The knife resumed its rhythm against the cutting board. “The car will be here at ten.”
This domestic version of Arrow—chopping vegetables, making sauce—refused to reconcile with the man who’d made me come apart on his table.
“Why are you doing this?” The question escaped before I could stop it.
Arrow continued chopping, the rhythm unbroken. “Doing what?”
“This.” I gestured around the kitchen. “Making dinner. Acting like we’re just a normal couple about to get married.”
He set the knife down and looked at me, his expression unreadable. “Because we need to eat. Because you’re under my roof now. Because this is how it’s going to be.”
“Until when?”
“Until death do us part,” he replied, his mouth quirking at the corner. “Isn’t that what the vows say?”
Cold spread through my chest. “I’m not saying those vows.”
He turned his attention back to the stove. “You will.”
The certainty in his voice made me want to scream. Pasta sauce bubbled while my world burned. The juxtaposition was obscene.
“Where were you today?” I asked, changing tactics.
“Handling business.” He poured olive oil into a pan and added garlic, filling the kitchen with its sharp scent.
“The kind that leaves bloodstains, or just the kind that ruins lives?”
He glanced at me, something like amusement flickering in his eyes. “Both, usually.”
I moved closer, watching his hands work the knife.
“I’d rather starve than eat anything you make,” I said, but my growling stomach betrayed me.
Arrow glanced up, his eyes catching mine. “Your body seems to disagree.”
He slid a plate in front of me—chicken and pasta in a red sauce that smelled intoxicating. My mouth watered traitorously.
“Eat.”
I sat at the counter and picked up my fork, hesitating. “Is it poisoned?”
His laugh was unexpected, a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the marble countertop. “If I wanted to kill you, Harlowe, I wouldn’t waste good food doing it.”
The fork moved to my mouth almost out of its own accord. Not because he demanded it, but because hunger is a more honest compulsion than loyalty. I’d noticed, too, that Arrow rarely gave direct orders.
“The sooner you realize your resistance is futile, the better off you’ll be.”
I pushed my plate away, still half-full. “I’m done.”
Arrow looked at my plate and then back at me. “No, you’re not.”
“I said I’m done.” I stood from the stool, ready to walk away, but he caught my wrist firmly.
“Sit the fuck down and finish your dinner.”
“Or what, killer?” I shot back.
He leaned in. “Or I’ll feed it to you myself.”
The memory of the donut shop flashed through my mind—his hand in my hair, forcing me to eat while people watched. I sat back down, hating myself for the small surrender.
“Good girl,” he murmured, and I wanted to stab him with my fork.
When I finished, I pushed the plate toward him with deliberate slowness.
“Happy now?”
“Ecstatic,” he replied dryly, collecting the plates and rinsing them in the sink. His back was to me, his shoulders broad beneath his T-shirt. “There are clothes in your closet. Wear something appropriate tomorrow.”
“Appropriate for what? A funeral?”
He dried his hands on a towel and turned to face me. “No. Appropriate for a woman who is about to become the wife of a Romanov.”
“Ah, like a perfect little mob wife.”
“I don’t need perfect,” he said. “I just need you to stop looking like you’ve been dragged through every brothel in the five boroughs.”
I laughed, the sound ugly even to my ears. “Oh, I’m sorry. Does my appearance embarrass you? Poor little Prince Romanov, with his damaged goods.”
He moved toward me then, and I braced myself for violence that didn’t come. He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on my cheek. “You could never embarrass me, malen’kaya gadyuka. But you’re trying very hard to embarrass yourself.”
I jerked away from his touch. “Don’t pretend you care.”
“I never pretend anything.” His eyes held mine, unflinching. “That’s the difference between us.”
Storming out of the kitchen, I refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing how his words had landed.
In my room—fuck, not mine—I slammed the door and leaned against it, sliding down until I hit the floor.
This was my life now—trapped in a glass castle with a monster who made dinner and touched me like he owned every inch of me.
That night, I didn’t sleep. I lay awake on the too-soft mattress, tracing patterns in the ceiling and counting down the hours until my fitting. By morning, I was exhausted but wired, my nerves stretched as thin as piano wire.
Showering, I let the scalding water beat against my skin until it turned pink, then wrapped myself in a towel and ventured to the closet.
I chose a simple black dress with long sleeves that covered the bruises on my arms. It fit perfectly, which only made me angrier. I applied enough makeup to cover the worst of the damage on my face, then headed downstairs.
Arrow was waiting by the front door, phone in hand, scrolling through messages. He looked up when he heard me, his eyes tracing a path from my hair to my heels.
“You’re wearing something appropriate,” he said, sounding almost pleased. “That’s a good start.”
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t get used to it.”
He pocketed his phone and straightened his already perfect tie. “The car is waiting. Mrs. Montalto is expecting us at the atelier in thirty minutes.”
“Us?” I raised an eyebrow. “I thought the groom wasn’t supposed to see the bride’s dress before the wedding. Bad luck and all that.”
“I think we’re well past worrying about bad luck, don’t you?” He opened the door, gesturing for me to go first. “Besides, I want to make sure you don’t try to run. Again. Speaking of, where’s your collar?”
I stiffened. “Still in my suitcase.”
“Put it on.” His voice was quiet but firm.
“No.”
He sighed, as if dealing with a petulant child. “Harlowe, we can do this the hard way or the easy way. Your choice.”
“What’s the hard way?” I goaded. “You’ll force it around my neck in front of Mrs. Montalto and all her assistants? Make a scene in public?”
“I don’t need a scene to make you obey me,” he answered. “But I could bend you over my knee, and after I spank that tight ass of yours, I’ll put it on you myself.”
I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. “You wouldn’t.”
His hand moved to my thigh, his fingers pressing into the fabric of my dress.
“Try me.”
We stared at each other for a long, tense moment, neither willing to back down. Finally, I broke the silence.
“Fine. I’ll wear your fucking collar.”
Arrow inclined his head, satisfied with the small victory. “Good choice.”
I went upstairs to my suitcase, jaw clenched so tight I thought my teeth might crack. The collar waited at the bottom, gleaming like a mockery. I lifted it, felt its weight against my palm, and remembered when Arrow had first seen me wear it, and the way his eyes had darkened.
Arrow was still waiting by the front door when I came back downstairs. His eyes immediately went to my throat, lingering on the obsidian and platinum band.
“Better,” he said.