41. Forty-One
FORTY-ONE
HARLOWE
The dinner continued with excruciating politeness.
Speeches were made—polite lies wrapped in fancy language.
I watched the room like a battlefield, noting positions, alliances forming and dissolving with each new conversation.
My father remained in his corner, holding court like the king he believed himself to be.
Arrow’s hand never left my body—at my waist, my shoulder, my thigh—a constant reminder of who I belonged to now.
As I stood there, watching the tense interplay between my father’s men and Arrow’s security, I couldn’t help but feel the weight of what was coming.
In less than forty-eight hours, I would be Harlowe Romanov—a name that would have been blasphemy just months ago.
The thought should have terrified me. Instead, I felt something dangerously close to anticipation.
“You’re quiet,” Arrow murmured, his lips brushing against my temple. “What are you thinking?”
I turned in my seat to face him, studying the sharp planes of his face in the golden light. “I’m thinking that both our fathers underestimated us. Mine thinks I’ll be his spy. Yours thinks you’ll break me. They’ve both miscalculated.”
A dangerous smile curved his lips. “Fatally, I hope.”
“Time will tell,” I replied, sipping my champagne, before setting it down on the table and sliding into his lap, making a show of wrapping my arms around his neck and kissing him.
“What are you doing?” he whispered against my lips.
“Making a statement,” I whispered back, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. “My father’s watching.”
Arrow’s eyes darkened as understanding dawned. His hands slid to my hips, fingers digging in possessively as I shifted on his lap.
“You want to make him suffer,” Arrow murmured, his lips trailing down my neck.
“Is that so wrong?” I asked, tilting my head to give him better access. I caught my father’s gaze across the room, saw the disgust flash across his face as Arrow’s teeth grazed my pulse point. The satisfaction I felt was immediate and visceral.
Arrow’s laugh rumbled against my skin. “Nothing has ever felt more right.”
I felt his hand slide up my thigh beneath the table, fingers tracing the edge of the bruises he’d left earlier. The touch was proprietary, a silent reminder of how thoroughly he’d claimed me. My body responded instantly, a flush spreading across my chest as I shifted against him.
“If you keep squirming like that, we’re going to give these fine people more of a show than they bargained for,” he warned, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that made my skin prickle. “Unless you want me to fuck you right here, in front of everyone.”
“Would you?” I challenged, rolling my hips subtly against him. “Show everyone exactly who I belong to now?”
His fingers tightened on my thigh, hard enough to leave fresh marks. “Don’t tempt me, Harlowe. There are limits to even my self-control.”
I leaned in, my lips brushing his ear. “What if I want to test those limits? What if I want everyone to see exactly what happens when you lose control?”
His grip tightened, fingers digging into the flesh of my thigh with exquisite pressure. “Then I’d have to punish you later,” he murmured, his voice a dangerous promise. “And you know how creative I can be when it comes to punishment.”
A delicious shiver ran down my spine. I shifted again, deliberately this time, feeling him harden beneath me. “Maybe that’s what I’m counting on.”
His eyes darkened to near black, pupils dilated with desire and something wilder. It thrilled me to see Arrow Romanov—feared, respected, untouchable—fighting for control because of me. I watched his jaw clench, that telltale muscle jumping as he reined himself in.
“You’re playing with fire, malen’kaya gadyuka,”* he warned.
From across the room, I felt my father’s gaze like a physical weight. When I glanced over, his expression was thunderous, disgust and fury warring on his face. Good. Let him see exactly what he’d created by throwing me to the wolves. Let him watch as I became the wolf instead.
Arrow followed my gaze, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face when he realized what I was doing. Without warning, he gripped my chin, turning my face back to his, and crushed his mouth against mine in a kiss that was more claim than affection.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes were dark with promise.
“I think we’ve made our point,” he murmured, his thumb tracing my lower lip. “Your father looks ready to commit murder in front of witnesses.”
I glanced over my shoulder, catching my father’s murderous expression before he turned away, barking orders at one of his capos. The sight filled me with savage satisfaction. For years, I’d tried to earn his approval, his respect, his love. Now I found power in his disgust.
“Good,” I said, sliding off Arrow’s lap with deliberate slowness, letting my dress ride up just enough to give him a glimpse of the bruises on my inner thighs. “That’s exactly what I wanted.”
Arrow stood, adjusting his suit jacket to conceal the evidence of his arousal. His hand found the small of my back, warm and possessive.
Drinks flowed freely as tensions simmered just beneath the surface. I watched my father work the room, his smile never reaching his eyes as he shook hands with men who had tried to kill him more than once. The performance was almost admirable—a dying king pretending he still ruled his kingdom.
“Where’s Orion?” I asked.
“He’s indisposed tonight, handling some personal shit.”
“Personal shit?” I raised an eyebrow. “Is everything okay with him?”
Arrow’s expression remained neutral, but I caught the slight tightening around his eyes. “Family matters. Nothing to concern yourself with.”
I knew better than to push. In our world, “family matters” could mean anything from a genuine emergency to cleaning up bodies. Orion’s absence was notable, though—he rarely missed important gatherings, especially ones involving security.
He stood suddenly, and the room fell silent as he tapped his glass with a knife, the crystal singing in the hush. All eyes turned to us—Virellis, Romanovs, and the neutral parties caught between our warring clans.
“I’d like to thank everyone for coming tonight,” he began, his voice carrying effortlessly across the room. “Especially those who had to check their weapons at the door.”
A ripple of tense laughter spread through the crowd. I scanned the faces—some amused, others calculating, a few openly hostile. My father remained in his corner, his expression carved from stone as he watched Arrow speak.
“Tomorrow, I marry Harlowe Virelli,” Arrow continued, his hand tightening possessively at my waist. “Many of you think this union is doomed. Some of you are actively betting on which one of us kills the other first.”
More laughter, less strained this time. I felt the weight of expectation pressing down on us—the daughter of Giovanni Virelli and the heir to the Romanov empire, standing together against all odds and common sense.
“I’ve heard the whispers,” Arrow said, his voice hardening slightly. “That this marriage is just business. A temporary ceasefire in a war that’s raged for generations.”
He turned to me then, his dark eyes locking with mine.
Something shifted in his expression—a softening so subtle that I wondered if anyone else could notice it but me.
He lifted my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles with an intimacy that felt more exposing than when he’d fucked me against the window at Erebus.
“What they don’t understand,” he said, his eyes never leaving mine, “is that this isn’t just business. This is inevitable.”
A hush fell over the room. Even my father seemed momentarily stunned by the raw conviction in Arrow’s voice. I felt my pulse quicken, my breath catching in my throat as he continued.
“Harlowe Virelli is the only woman in this city dangerous enough to stand beside me.
The only one ruthless enough to match my darkness.
Tomorrow, she becomes mine in name, but make no mistake—“ his grip tightened on my hand, “—I have belonged to her since the first time she held a knife to my throat.”
The confession hung in the air, electric and dangerous. This wasn’t part of the script. This wasn’t the cold, calculated speech I’d expected from Arrow Romanov. This was something else entirely—something that made my skin prickle with a sensation I couldn’t quite name.
“To my bride,” Arrow raised his glass, eyes still locked with mine. “May our enemies fear us both equally.”
Glasses raised throughout the room, the toast echoing off the walls.
I felt dozens of eyes on me—assessing, recalculating, wondering what kind of power I held over the untouchable Arrow Romanov.
My father’s expression was murderous, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
The Romanovs looked equally unsettled, exchanging glances that spoke volumes about their discomfort with Arrow’s public declaration.
As the toast ended and conversation resumed, Arrow leaned close, his breath warm against my ear. “Let’s go. We’ve given them enough to talk about for one night.”
I nodded, suddenly eager to escape the scrutiny, the whispers, the calculating gazes following our every move. As we made our excuses to Atlas and Luna, she squeezed my hand one last time.
“Remember what I said,” she whispered. “Be strong enough to demand what you need.”
Arrow guided me through the crowd, his hand never leaving the small of my back. We were almost at the door when my father stepped into our path, his expression carefully neutral though his eyes burned with barely contained fury.
“Leaving so soon?” he asked, his voice deceptively pleasant. “The night’s barely begun.”
“We have an early morning,” Arrow replied smoothly. “Final arrangements for the ceremony.”
My father’s gaze slid to me, his eyes cold and assessing. “I’d like a word with my daughter before you go. Alone.”