35. Thirty-Five #2
We settled at the table, Arrow pulling out my chair before taking his own seat beside me. A waiter appeared immediately with a bottle of wine for the table and sparkling water for Luna.
“Harlowe, you look stunning,” she smiled, gently squeezing my hands in hers. “Way too beautiful for a beast like Arrow.”
“Beauty’s only useful if you can weaponize it,” I winked.
I meant it as a joke, but Luna’s expression flickered in that way trauma recognizes its kin.
She gave a little nod that said maybe she understood too much, and poured us both a glass of mineral water.
Atlas watched her with the kind of attention that made me uncomfortable; not that he didn’t trust her, but that he couldn’t ever stop gauging the perimeter of her safety.
I wondered what it would be like to have a man so attuned to your shadows that he could read the story of your last hour off your shoulders alone.
Arrow watched me watch them, his gaze narrowing as he scanned every tic, every glitch of my face.
He nudged his hand onto my knee beneath the table, not for show but for contact, and the heat of his palm was a current that shot up to the base of my jaw.
I let myself lean into the sensation—a domesticity play, something I’d tried on only in the privacy of imagination.
I liked Luna immediately. She had the air of a half-wild animal learning to like the leash but not trusting it, not even for a second.
Her long black hair was curled and fell in gentle waves to her pregnant belly.
She was petite and beautiful, exuding an aura of kindness and ferocity in one breath.
I could understand why Atlas saved her, and even more why she was about to have their child.
“So,” Luna started softly, “word is that you two are actually going to do it.”
Arrow grinned like a man with a buried lead. “If by ‘do it’ you mean walk up the aisle before someone shoots at us, then yeah.”
Atlas whistled. “Smart. You put on a public show, and it slows everyone’s trigger finger. Plus, no one wants to get blood on a Vera Wang sample sale.”
“What’s the dress code for this bash?” Luna asked, and her eyes flashed in a way that suggested she had lived every kind of life but still took the time to color-code her trauma for social occasions. “Should I wear black, or palette-match the blood feud?”
I couldn’t help but laugh at her joke. She fit well in this world we were all born into. I stretched my leg until my heel grazed Arrow’s shin. “Black. Always black. Anything lighter and the city might mistake us for optimists.”
Luna’s laugh was full and bright, sucking the gravity from the air. Atlas, meanwhile, eyed Arrow with a quick, appraising glance before turning to me. “I saw the video,” he said, voice neutral but eyes sharp.
My spine stiffened. I kept my smile in place, though it felt brittle around the edges. “Which one? I’m all over social media these days.”
Luna shot Atlas a warning look, but he continued. “The one from Isadora’s club. With the blonde.”
Arrow‘s hand tightened on my thigh beneath the table, a silent command to tread carefully. But I’d never been good at following commands, even unspoken ones.
“What can I say?” I shrugged, taking a deliberate sip of wine. “I know how to put on a show.”
Atlas’s mouth twitched. “That you do. It’s causing quite the stir with the Kovenskis.”
“Atlas,” Luna admonished softly. “We said no business talk tonight.”
He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Just making conversation.”
The waiter arrived with our appetizers. Carpaccio for the men, and burrata for Luna and me. I was grateful for the interruption, the tension momentarily diffused by the ritualistic presentation of food.
“How are the wedding preparations coming along?” Luna asked, deftly changing the subject. “I remember being a nervous wreck the week before ours.”
I glanced at Arrow, who was watching me with that infuriating half-smile. “The wedding planner’s on her third nervous breakdown. Apparently, having Romanovs and Virellis in the same room requires more security than the Secret Service can provide.”
Luna laughed, her hand unconsciously moving to her belly. “I remember. Atlas had snipers on every rooftop when we got married.”
“Necessary precaution,” Atlas muttered, not looking remotely apologetic.
“I had to convince him not to make everyone go through metal detectors,” Luna added, rolling her eyes affectionately.
“You’ll understand once you’re married,” Atlas told me, his eyes flicking to Arrow. “When you have something worth protecting, you don’t take any chances.”
The way he looked at Luna—like she was the beginning and end of his entire world—made something twist uncomfortably in my chest. I couldn’t imagine Arrow ever looking at me that way. We were fire and gasoline, destruction incarnate. Not . . . whatever this was.
We ate. Osso buco, perfectly stewed, so fragile I could puncture the shank with my tongue.
Luna told stories about sampling cake batter at three a.m. when insomnia bent her spine like a coat hanger; Arrow snickered at Atlas for his insistence on perfectly chilled vodka, like he couldn’t drink anything room temperature without risking his debutante reputation.
I turned to Luna. “How long before the baby’s due?”
“Nine weeks,” she beamed, then let her smile wilt a bit. “Don’t worry, I won’t go into labor at your wedding. Unless you want the headline.”
“Only if the rivalry’s bloody enough to trend.”
All sense of formality dissolved in a low swing of Arrow, reverting to his more natural state: brooding, gorgeous, and slightly apart, his hand wrapped around the knife handle of a steak, always scanning the room for ghosts and hostiles.
The second round of food came—burrata, and potatoes fried in duck fat—and Arrow forked off half of mine before I even blinked, as the rules of ownership had always applied to my food as well as my body.
Arrow held a forkful of burrata under my nose, suspended like a bribe. “Try it,” he said, and even though I wanted to ignore him, the lilt in his voice—half command, half dare—pried my mouth open.
He flicked the cheese inside, watched me chew, and I saw in his eyes the open secret: he liked feeding me. Like a pet or a wild animal, or maybe an offering to whatever savage god kept us alive in a city that wanted us dead.
I chewed slowly, savoring the richness, watching Luna’s eyes chase Atlas’ every move while pretending not to.
Arrow’s attention was a wire braced across the table; he never let the conversation slack, even when Atlas pivoted to a story about the last time they’d been summoned to Brighton Beach for a funeral that turned into a gunfight before the appetizers even landed.
“God, I hated my father’s friends,” Arrow said, and the way he spat the word “friends” made me understand how little love there’d ever been in the entire Romanov bloodline.
Atlas grinned, crimping the edge of his napkin. “Thought you loved the old fucker?”
“Love is for people who expect to stay alive,” Arrow replied, reaching over to steal a string of potato from my plate, dipping it in the yolk spill, and eating it in a single, decisive chomp.
I couldn’t help but smile at that. “Survival is the only real love language in this city.”
Atlas raised his glass in agreement. “To staying alive.”
“And thriving,” Luna added, her hand resting protectively over her belly.
“The rehearsal dinner tomorrow will be interesting,” Arrow said, his thumb tracing circles on my thigh under the table. “First time both families have been in the same room since the engagement announcement.”
“Which ended with three broken noses and my father threatening to disembowel your uncle,” I added dryly.
Luna winced. “Family gatherings are always so heartwarming.”
“Speaking of family,” Atlas said. “Is your father coming to the rehearsal dinner?”
Arrow tensed beside me. Giovanni Virelli was a sensitive subject, especially with the wedding so close.
“Of course,” I replied, keeping my voice light. “He wouldn’t miss the chance to intimidate all the Romanovs in one room.”
Luna’s eyes widened slightly. “Will there be metal detectors?”
“And pat-downs,” Arrow added dryly. “Facial recognition at the door. The works.”
Atlas nodded approvingly. “Smart. Nothing says ‘I love you’ like expecting everyone to be armed.”
“It’s not paranoia if they’re really out to kill you,” I quipped.
Luna placed her hand over mine. “Are you nervous? About tomorrow?”
I considered lying, but the genuine concern in her eyes, which transcended our families’ tangled histories, made me honest. “Terrified,” I admitted quietly.
“Not of marrying him.” I glanced at Arrow, whose eyes had darkened at my confession.
“But of what happens when two families who’ve spent generations trying to destroy each other suddenly have to play nice. ”
Atlas exchanged a look with Arrow that spoke volumes. “The first year is the hardest,” he said. “Everyone is waiting for the alliance to crumble, vultures circling, hoping to pick at the carcass.”
“Not helping, Atlas,” Luna chided, squeezing my hand. “What my tactless husband means is that people will test you. Both of you. But if you stand united, they’ll eventually accept the new order.”
I nodded, feeling Arrow’s eyes on my face. The weight of his stare was both comforting and suffocating, like being wrapped in a blanket that might also be used to smother me.
“I’ve been tested my whole life,” I said, lifting my chin. “Being a Virelli daughter means proving yourself worthy of the name every day.”
“And being a Romanov means knowing when to strike and when to wait,” he added, his voice low enough that only our table could hear. “The city will adjust. They always do.”
Luna and Atlas shared another look. A silent communication that comes from knowing exactly who and what you are to each other. I wondered if Arrow and I would ever have that, or if we’d always be circling each other like predators, waiting for the moment to strike.