22. Twenty-Two #2
I weaved through the crowd, ignoring the curious glances and whispered comments that followed in my wake, until I found a set of French doors that led to a balcony overlooking the city.
The night air was a shock to my system, but I’d take hypothermia over one more minute of that suffocating heat. Gulping it down as if I’d been drowning, I let it fill my lungs.
Manhattan stretched below me, a constellation of lights against the darkness. Somewhere in that maze of concrete and steel was freedom. Or at least, the illusion of it.
“Beautiful view, isn’t it?”
Whirling around, I found Orion leaning against the doorframe, watching me.
“Running already?”
“Did Arrow send you to babysit me?” I wrapped my arms around myself against the chill.
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Arrow doesn’t tell me what to do. I’m just making sure you don’t do anything stupid.”
“Like what? Jump?” I gestured to the railing. “We’re only three floors up. I’d probably just break my legs and spend the next six months in traction. Not exactly the dramatic escape I’m looking for.”
Orion pushed off the frame and crossed to the railing, close enough I could smell his cologne—something woodsy. “You bolted. I followed. Atlas is keeping the wolves entertained.”
“How thoughtful.”
“It’s practical.” He leaned against the railing and studied the skyline. “You’re tougher than I expected.”
“Everyone keeps saying that,” I replied, “like it’s some kind of surprise that Giovanni Virelli’s daughter has a backbone.”
Orion studied me with those moss-green eyes. “It’s not about being a Virelli. It’s about surviving Arrow. Most women don’t.”
A chill that had nothing to do with the night air crawled up my spine. “Survive him how?”
“Emotionally,” Orion clarified. “He consumes people—takes what he wants and leaves the rest.” He glanced back toward the party. “I’ve known him since we were kids. He’s my brother in every way except blood, but even I know better than to get too close to the fire.”
Bitter laughter escaped me. “I didn’t exactly volunteer to be kindling.”
“No,” he agreed. “But you’re not burning as quickly as they expected.”
The pause between us thickened. Orion wasn’t the type to fill empty space.
Neither was I.
“Can I give you some advice?” The question came out carefully, like he was testing thin ice.
“Will it help?”
“Probably not,” he admitted. “But I’ll say it anyway. Don’t fight him on everything. Choose your battles. Don’t make him prove himself over and over. He will, and the cost gets higher each time. Arrow will kill me for saying this, but he’s worth surrendering to.”
“And what’s worth surrendering to, exactly?” My voice turned sharp as I faced him fully. “The man who shot his cousin in the head to protect his property?”
Orion’s expression didn’t change. “So you know about Natalya.”
“I was there. Her blood was on my face.” Looking back toward the party, toward the golden light spilling through the French doors, I said, “He killed her like it was nothing.”
“It wasn’t nothing to him,” Orion said quietly. “You’re still breathing, and she’s not. Natalya was family, but you were his choice.”
That pulled a laugh from my throat that felt like swallowing nails.
“His choice? His prize, you mean. His fucking trophy.”
“Both can be true.” Orion pushed away from the railing. “Look, I’m not saying marry him with stars in your eyes. I’m just saying, there are worse fates than being Arrow Romanov’s wife.”
“Like what?”
“Being his enemy.” His eyes held mine. “Or worse, being nothing to him at all.”
“Is that what you tell all his victims?” I snapped.
His jaw clenched. “No, you’re the only one who’s ever made it this far.” He checked his watch. “We should go back inside; Arrow will be looking for you.”
Before I could respond, the door to the balcony opened again, and Atlas stepped out, his massive frame blocking most of the light from inside.
“There you are,” he said, eyes narrowing at Orion. “Arrow’s looking for his bride. The vultures are getting restless.”
I straightened my spine and smoothed down the front of my dress. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint the fans.”
Atlas held the door open, his gaze heavy as I passed. “For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, “you’re handling this better than most would.”
“Is that a compliment or a warning?” I asked.
He smiled. “Both.”
When I reentered the ballroom, Arrow was in the center of a group of men, all leaning in to catch his words.
His eyes found mine immediately, as if he’d been tracking my absence with some internal radar.
Without breaking his conversation, he extended his hand toward me, drawing me back into his orbit without a word.
Sliding into place beside him, my body moved on instinct while my mind screamed in protest.
Arrow led me through the rest of the night like an auctioneer showing off a war trophy. We moved from circle to circle, every handshake another contract, every air kiss a sign of alliance or threat.
The bruises on my throat didn’t embarrass me.
I belonged to the Romanovs now, and the necklace made it official.
I stopped trying to hide either of them, stopped pretending the Virelli name meant anything anymore.
I squared my shoulders and met them, trading the Virelli smile for the Romanov ice in my veins.
The hours blurred, and I lost track of who promised what to whom.
At one point, I caught my father watching from across the ballroom, his glass raised in an invisible salute, his lips wet with the satisfaction of a plan accreting momentum.
Even from fifty feet and three bodyguards away, I could smell the danger emanating from him.
The old man would never accept peace, not really.
Maybe Arrow understood it too, which is why his hand at my lower back never wavered.
He palmed the small of my back and nudged me to circulate.
The crowd grew more dense as the night poured itself out.
A senator’s daughter circled us. She was beautiful in that polished, dangerous way that came from years of knowing exactly how to use her face.
She had money and connections, and she wanted to know if Arrow’s engagement to me meant anything for her next campaign.
A financier drifted past, his suit expensive but worn, his cologne trying too hard to cover the smell of desperation.
He’d lost most of his money and was fishing for a way back in.
Then there was the woman who’d shown up at my mother’s funeral years ago.
She greeted me like we were old friends, like she hadn’t spent the last decade pretending I didn’t exist. Now that I was engaged to Arrow, I was suddenly worth her time.
They all wanted something. They all thought they could use us.
Somewhere, hours in, Arrow let his hold on my arm drift to my hip, then to my hand, and I realized the cameras loved him most when he leashed the pretty, bloodied thing to his side, pressed a thumb into the hollow there, marking, always, always.
Together, we wove through the bouquet of power and decline, stopping only when a glassy-eyed debutante in a slip dress tottered up to me, drunk or maybe high, gripping my forearm with damp fingers.
“You’re Harlowe, right? We went to Marymont together. You set fire to the nuns’ bathroom?” She giggled, eyes wild and wet, then clapped a hand to her mouth. “Is it true what they say about him?”
She jerked her head at Arrow, who was doing that thing where he stood completely still and somehow dominated the room anyway.
“What do they say about him?”
The girl’s eyes sizzled. “That he gets off on bringing girls to heel. That the Beacon had to replace every mattress on his floor because they came back . . . ruined.” She hiccupped, grinning like she’d told a joke only she understood.
Arrow cocked an eye at me, as if daring a rebuttal.
“You shopping, or just researching?” I asked.
The girl grinned, her eyes barely open. “Depends. You trading?” She swayed closer. “Because I’d let him ruin me, for science.”
She staggered away before I could answer, stumbling into an old family fixer.
“Making friends?” he murmured, his breath hot against my ear.
“Just catching up on your reputation,” I countered, matching his casual tone despite the tension radiating between us. “Apparently, you’ve ruined quite a few mattresses at the Beacon. Quite the endorsement.”
“You worried?” he teased, before laughing. “Don’t believe everything you hear.”
“Oh? So it’s not true?”
Arrow’s eyes met mine. “I never said that.”
“How many of the women here tonight have you fucked?”
“Jealous already, Virelli?”
“Concerned for public health,” I shot back. “The STD rate must spike whenever you enter a room.”
He laughed, the sound genuine enough to make heads turn. “Always so sharp.” His fingers traced the edge of my jaw. “I wonder if you’ll ever dull.”
“Not for you,” I promised.
Arrow’s hand settled at the back of my neck, heat burning through skin. He pulled me in, his lips a breath away from mine. His hand locked on my hip, dragging me against him until there was nothing between us but the thin lie of my dress.
The world narrowed. Every face, every future, every reason I had to stay sharp—gone. Just his body against mine, just the pressure of his mouth almost touching mine, just the knowledge that one inch would destroy every wall I’d built.
I almost kissed him. God, I wanted to . . . with all of Manhattan watching. I almost let myself give, just an inch, just enough for the truth to remind me who I was before I learned what it cost to want, but then I word-vomited before I did something I wouldn’t be able to take back.
“Imagine being her, in a world where you’re not an itemized asset on a sociopath’s balance sheet.”
He smiled as if he’d expected it, his hand floating up to graze the A pressed against my breastbone with his knuckle. “If I were just a sociopath, you’d be dead already.”
The quip died on my tongue.
It was true.