20. Twenty
TWENTY
HARLOWE
Arrow didn’t crowd me in the car, for once.
He hung at the door, eyes hooded, letting me press myself flat against the opposite window.
The hush was charged, the only sound was the pat-pat-pat of rain on the roof.
He rolled up his shirtsleeves, showing his tattooed forearms, then scrubbed his face with both hands.
I wanted to open my mouth—spit out a joke, a threat, or maybe just the taste of defeat. Nothing would come but a sharp, breathy laugh.
Without looking up, he said, “I never pegged you as a pain slut.”
Gritting my teeth, I was grateful for the insult—better than pity.
“Not your brand of pain. Some of us have selective palates.” My eyes burned from exhaustion. “There’s no high like a Romanov setting the bar.”
Sweat and blood filled the car, humid and suffocating. I didn’t want to be alone with Arrow—not here, not in this state—but his silence cratered the urge to run away. I caught my reflection in the rain-blurred window, my mascara and eyeliner bleeding black down my cheeks.
Every inch of me glowed with the embarrassment of being displayed—triumph, disaster, and some third thing I’d never be able to translate into English.
The car was silent, except for the rain battering the windows. Finally, he spoke, not turning to face me but pitching his voice so it arced along the car’s roof like a wire under tension.
“What does the great Giovanni Virelli know about his daughter’s extracurricular activities?”
“I don’t give a fuck what he knows. I don’t give a fuck what he thinks. I don’t need his absolution,” I replied, voice flint and skin. “He signed it away on the dotted line.”
Arrow’s jaw tensed. “I see. You must believe that absolves you, then.”
“Enough.” I twisted to look at him, daring him to flinch. “It means I get to ruin myself however I want. What I don’t understand is why you care. It doesn’t matter whether I get off in a dog collar or a wedding dress.”
He turned to me, then, one arm across the backrest, the other resting at his knee, face composed in that perfect, ageless calm I’d started to recognize as his most honest self.
Considering me for a moment, he reached into the cupholder and drew out a joint—slim and expertly rolled. He offered it to me first, and I took it.
He lit it for me with a flick, and I inhaled deeply, coughed, and watched the smoke coil between us while he watched me.
“I don’t have a signature, Arrow. That’s the whole point.” The metallic aftertaste of defiance lingered. “I’m nobody’s.”
“Yet.”
The words came like a god’s—spoken by a man who knew that the end of every stubborn girl’s story was a name signed in blood and a wedding ring soldered into her bone. He took the joint from my fingers and stubbed it out on the edge of the door panel.
“Get some sleep,” he said, and for once, there was no venom behind the command.
I considered telling him to fuck off—I always did—but the ache in my spine, and the hot hum of the pain in my leg, overrode the instinct. Instead, I stared out at the city.
Manhattan pulsed, indifferent. The rhythm of passing streetlights lulled me toward something like rest.
Next thing I knew, we were pulling up to Arrow’s manor.
He scooped me from my side of the car before the doors even finished unlocking, one arm under my knees and the other braced strongly across my back.
The touch was impersonal by design, but I could feel the life in his hands, the electricity of a body that never forgot what it wanted to do to a living, breathing girl.
Arrow walked me up the marble steps, and the guard stationed at the door nodded, opening it until it swung wide, the house pulsing awake with the subtle activation of lights, alarms, and eyes on every surface.
Setting me upright in the entryway, he stood back, waiting for me to make a move.
I staggered two steps forward, found my balance, and only then noticed the figure in the shadows at the end of the hall—Natalya, very much alive, hair slicked wet and slicked back, eyes narrowed with malice.
I’d embarrassed her by escaping right under her nose, and I was confident she’d find a way to make me pay for it.
She perched on the edge of the foyer’s wooden bench, a pale blue icepack pressed to one temple.
“Nice show,” she drawled, voice slurred just enough to telegraph the aftereffects of my cocktail. Her gaze didn’t stray from my face. “You’re a regular fucking Houdini, Harlowe.”
“Don’t you look well-rested?” I grinned.
Natalya sneered. “Didn’t need to drug me to escape, milaya devochka.* Arrow would’ve let you go eventually. He likes to pretend he has mercy.”
“Clearly.”
Arrow’s hand slid to my lower back, applying just enough pressure to steer me toward the stairs. “That’s enough, Natalya. Go home.”
She shrugged, pushing herself up from the bench with exaggerated effort. “Sure thing, cousin. I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone.” Her gaze lingered on me. “Just remember what I said, Harlowe. He doesn’t like hurting women. But he will.”
“Get out,” Arrow hissed.
Natalya smirked, grabbed her coat, and sauntered to the door. “Sweet dreams, Virelli. Don’t let the monsters bite.” The door closed behind her with a soft click that somehow felt more threatening than a slam.
Frozen in the entryway, every muscle in my body ached. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving me hollow and shaky.
Arrow’s hand stayed on my back. “Let’s go, Houdini.” He nudged me up toward the stairs.
Turning to face him, I planted my feet in protest.
He sighed loudly, picked me up, and threw me over his shoulder.
I let out an indignant yelp as the world flipped upside down, blood rushing to my head as he carried me like a sack of flour. His shoulder dug into my stomach, and I winced.
“Put me down, you fucking caveman!” I pounded my fists against his back, but he only tightened his grip on my thighs. “Put me down before I bite you.”
“Go ahead,” he challenged. “I’ll bite back harder.”
My body went limp, as I decided to conserve my energy. Blood rushed to my head as the staircase swept past in a blur, but Arrow’s gait never faltered, each step steady and sure. When we reached my room, he kicked the door open and finally set me down on the edge of the bed.
I scrambled backward immediately, putting distance between us. My leg throbbed, and dried blood crackled on my skin.
“You need a shower,” he said, his eyes tracking the mess of me. “And that leg needs proper cleaning.”
“I can take care of myself,” I snapped, though we both knew it wasn’t true. Not tonight.
He disappeared into the bathroom, and the sound of water running filled the space between us. He returned with a first aid kit and a damp cloth, before dropping to his knees in front me. His face was impassive as he reached for my injured leg.
“Don’t touch me,” I warned, but there was no heat behind it.
Ignoring my protest entirely, he took my ankle in his hand. His touch was firm but impersonal, and I was too exhausted to fight him.
“This needs stitches,” he said flatly.
“Just clean it,” I muttered. “I’ve had worse.”
A brief flicker of his eyes to mine. “I’m aware.”
His hands worked the wound, gently wiping away dried blood. I winced when he applied antiseptic, the sting making me suck in a sharp breath between my teeth.
“Hold still,” he commanded, his voice low.
“Easy for you to say,” I hissed. “You’re not the one being tortured.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “If you think this is torture, you have a very sheltered definition of the word.”
His dark head bent low over my leg, and something twisted in my chest. There was something strangely intimate about this moment. More intimate than the kiss we’d shared at the altar. This was care without pretense, without the veneer of dominance or submission. Just one monster tending to another.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked.
Arrow didn’t look up. “Because infection is a stupid way to die.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
His hands went still on my leg. “I know what you meant.”
When he didn’t elaborate, I sighed and leaned back against the pillows. “You seem to keep saving me from myself. It’s getting old.”
He finished cleaning my wound, and when he was done, he sat back on his heels and stared at me without responding.
So, of course, I continued poking at him. “Just because you cleaned my cut doesn’t mean I’ll willingly walk down the aisle to you.”
“You had your freedom, you made your statement; now, we do it my way.” He looked at me like he was going to say something that might change things between us, but then seemed to think better of it. “Are you going to run again tomorrow?”
“You can count on it.” My pride refused to surrender.
He chuckled, and I hated him—hated myself—for how the game never tired. “Tomorrow, then,” he said, letting his hand go slack and backing away. “But for now, sleep.”
The door closed behind him with a quiet click that was more final than any shout.
And I sat on the edge of the bed, legs open, the bandage weeping just a trace of red through the gauze.
Sleep never came.
At three a.m., I wandered into the bathroom and stepped into the shower.
My hands trembled as I scrubbed blood from my thighs.
Back in bed, I curled under the covers, pressed the pillow to my face, and screamed.
Tossing and turning, I finally threw the sheets off me and tiptoed downstairs for a snack, searching for something to quiet the noise in my head.
Natalya was perched on the kitchen counter, headphones in, mashing the buttons of a Nintendo Switch as though she could brute-force her way to an extra life. Her focus didn’t waver when I entered—if anything, her fingers moved faster, eyes glued to the screen.
“I thought Arrow sent you home.” I scoffed.
Natalya’s eyes flicked to me, then back to her game. “I don’t follow his orders; I just let him think I do.” She paused the game and set it aside, sizing me up. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks. I feel worse.”
I opened the refrigerator, scanning for anything that might settle my stomach. The bright light made my head pound.