11. Eleven #3
His fingers traced up my neck, along my jaw, until they tangled in my hair. “Only if you ask for it. Nicely.”
“I’d rather die.”
“We both know that’s not true.” He twisted his fingers, tilting my head back until my throat was exposed. “I’ve tasted that sweet, rebellious pussy of yours, Harlowe. I know exactly how wet you get when I put you on your knees.”
Heat flooded my cheeks, humiliation and anger tangling together. “That’s just biology—my body reacting to stimulus.”
“Is that what you tell yourself?” His lips brushed my ear. “That your body betrays you while your mind remains pure and untouched?”
I jerked away, breaking his hold. “I’m not one of your whores, Arrow. I won’t pretend to want this.”
“I don’t need your pretense.” He stepped back, straightening his cuffs. “Just your obedience, when it matters.”
“And when is that? When your father’s watching? When our families are present?” I took another step back, needing distance. “Or when we’re alone, and you want to prove you own me?”
Arrow studied me, his face unreadable. “When it’s necessary for our survival.”
The word hung between us.
Survival.
Not happiness, not partnership, just the basic animal instinct to keep breathing. The only thing this marriage would ever be.
“I need air,” I muttered, turning toward the door.
To my surprise, he didn’t stop me.
“Don’t go far. We have more to discuss with Mrs. Montalto.”
The rest of the walk-through blurred past me. Floral contractors barked orders, Mrs. Montalto showed off the table settings, and Arrow drifted room to room at my side, radiating a deadly calm that made even the most imposing security wilt back against the pillared walls.
Every move we made was watched, measured, and remeasured in the mirrors and marble of one of Manhattan’s most haunted cathedrals of capitalism.
The Romanov team wore green; the Virellis favored black, which set the two empires at odds even in the most trivial gestures—war uniforms masquerading as tuxedos.
I floated through the timeline—rehearse the procession, sign the damn paperwork, maybe lay down on the stone and wait for someone to run me the fuck over, ending this nightmare sham of a marriage.
Arrow kept me within arm’s reach, shadowing me even when Mrs. Montalto called him for a “private consultation” and left me mid-aisle with an arrangement of dead lilies, like a bride left for auction.
Frank, ever present, stayed close, pacing back and forth through the frosted doors, jaw twitching as he watched the Romanov men interact with the venue staff. He didn’t like the layers of security, and he didn’t like how every doorway now had a Russian face.
The message was clear.
What was once Virelli ground was now shared, contested, or simply rented.
I found Arrow on the balcony, smoking a cigarette and staring out at the city. “In Russia, they say obsidian is a soul trap,” he murmured without turning. “A way to keep the spite in after the heart stops beating.”
“Soul trap?” I asked, realizing he was talking about my collar. I touched it softly. “Is that why you want me to wear it?”
“I want you to wear it because it looks beautiful on you in a way it never would on anyone else,” he replied, flicking ash over the balcony. “The soul trap is just a bonus.”
I looked at him then, the way you only look at someone when you know you’re finally alone.
He was the only man I’d ever met who seemed to grow more honest the closer we were to each other, as if there was a private version of Arrow Romanov made of everything terrifying and real, reserved just for me.
He lit another cigarette and angled his body toward me in a gesture so familiar it short-circuited my brain.
“When I was seventeen, my uncle told me the worst thing you can do to an enemy is make them believe they have a choice.” He smoked, expression flat and nihilistic. “But you’re the one person on the planet who only seems to get stronger every time I give you less.”
“I’ll take the compliment,” I said, keeping my eyes on the skyline.
He didn’t answer, but the edge of his smile said he’d already started the countdown.
They let us out of the building last, after Ivan had run the perimeter twice and Mrs. Montalto deemed the post-ceremony alignment “flawless, enough that Saint Peter himself would RSVP yes.”
Arrow walked me to the car in silence, Frank trailing a tactful six steps behind.
While the driver killed time behind the wheel, Arrow blocked the open door with his body, hands braced at either side of the frame, caging me for the length of a heartbeat.
Up close, his eyes were inhuman in their clarity.
I tried to make them flinch and failed.
He reached in, tugging my wrist until my palm was flat against his shirt, right above his heart. The pulse beneath was steady, but his voice was not.
“Two months,” he said. “You can call it a sentence, or a dare. Either way, you’re mine at the end of it. Oh, and from now on, stay away from La Lune Noire.”
Like hell, I would.
I didn’t reply.
Climbing into the car, I shut the door hard enough to feel the vibration echo through my bones.