25. Twenty-Five
TWENTY-FIVE
HARLOWE
By noon, a single houseman in a starch-white shirt brought us espresso and a raw tray of fruit, eyes assessing the evidence of what we’d done to one another. Naked except for the chain, I ate while Arrow watched me from the unmade pit of the bed, halfway through the coffee before he finally spoke.
“You’ll never be safe with me, you know. Not for a day.”
Licking strawberry juice from my wrist, I met his gaze. “Is that a threat, or a promise?”
Arrow’s smile was an answer all its own. “It’s my favorite kind of truth.”
He flicked the chain, letting the pendant at my throat tremble. He watched the pendulum sway, then leaned over, teeth grazing the A so gently I almost missed it.
“We might have to make this permanent,” he said. “The city loves a wedding. But they live for a legend.”
I wanted to tell him that I was allergic to permanence, that even the idea of forever made my skin prickle with old shame.
But biting the inside of my cheek, I let him imagine it, let myself imagine it, for a second, what it would be like to be haunted on purpose. To make a home out of wreck and want.
When he fucked me a fourth time, it was slow, almost lazy, as if indulging in a decadent final meal before the world returned in full color and sound.
His hands moved with deliberate patience, mapping every bruise he’d left, every mark that proved I’d survived him.
This time, there was no violence in it—just the steady, relentless pressure of a man who knew exactly how to unravel me.
Afterwards, he guided me to the shower, washed my hair, and knelt to soap the bruises ringing my thighs like garters. Now and then, he would press his mouth to a new scrape, as if to apologize for the violence he’d written into my skin.
It worked.
By the time hot water scalded my aches to a soft hum, I’d stopped measuring how much of myself was left and started quantifying how much I wanted him to keep.
We dressed, and the oversized black off-the-shoulder sweater and leggings felt like armor after a night spent naked.
Arrow wore a fitted navy long-sleeve shirt with jeans that hugged his muscular thighs.
He ran a comb through my hair, smoothing it behind my ears as if rehearsing a new protocol for touching me.
The minute he finished, he flicked the television to a news channel. His expression didn’t change even when they showed angles of the party from last night, my body and his orbiting each other at the center of every frame.
“Look,” he said, tapping the remote’s mute with a knuckle. “You made the cover.”
There I was, in dark red lipstick, staring out from the front page. The camera had caught my chain, the bruises, even the liquid stare down my face as Arrow’s hand gripped my hip. The anchorman smiled through it, mouth promising reconciliation, headline screaming war.
“At least they spelled Virelli right,” I muttered.
Arrow laughed. It was the raw, honest sound I’d only just started to get used to. He came up behind me, arms snaking around my torso, chin on my shoulder, holding me in the kind of embrace that could be nurturing or lethal.
Twisting to face him, the urge to run was still there, like a phantom limb.
But the more honest urge was to bring him to the floor by his hair and never let go.
I knew he could sense it, the way predators smelled blood in the air.
He lifted me up, and brought me straight into his lap, elbows bracketing my ribs.
“I have to take care of some business in the city, and I’d feel better if you stayed in my penthouse in the building Atlas owns.”
“Arrow Romanov owns a mansion and a penthouse? Now you’re just showing off.”
“It’s the only way to get some fucking quiet in Manhattan,” he said, then nipped the top of my ear hard enough that I squirmed. “You’ll be safer there.”
“Have you always been like this?” The question came out softer than intended, as his hands lazily traced from hip to spine and back. “I mean, I know the reputation, the old stories. But this—”
I let the words hang. The marks on my body said more than I ever could.
He considered my question. “I don’t believe history repeats. I think it distills.”
There was something in the way he said it, eyes glazed and distant, that told me he’d seen the future, and it wore my face.
Watching him, my body still aching with the memory of his touch.
His words echoed in my head—history distills—and I wondered what version of myself would be left when all this was over.
Would the girl who’d once been Harlowe Virelli still be recognizable, or would something new emerge, something harder, something that belonged entirely to him?
“When do we leave?”
“An hour.” Arrow’s fingers traced the chain at my neck, following it down to where the A rested between my breasts. “Pack light. Everything you need will be there.”
Nodding, I tried not to lean into his touch. It was dangerous how quickly my body had learned to crave him.
“What business?” I asked, unable to stop myself. “In the city?”
His eyes met mine, calculating, weighing how much to tell me—deciding whether I’d earned his trust or was still just a pretty possession to be managed.
“Antoli wants to meet. Alone.” He said it casually, but the tension in his jaw gave him away. “Family business.”
“Your father didn’t look well last night.”
Arrow’s laugh was cold. “He hasn’t looked well in years. But he’s outlived everyone who’s ever tried to kill him.” He stepped back, creating space between us. “Including me.”
My eyes widened at his casual admission. “You tried to kill your father?”
“Once. When I was seventeen.” His voice was casual, but his eyes were anything but. “It didn’t end well for either of us.”
I wanted to ask for details, but something in his expression warned me not to push. Whatever had happened between Arrow and his father was a wound still raw enough to bleed if prodded.
“Get your things,” he said, pressing a kiss to my forehead that felt strangely tender after everything we’d done. “I’ll meet you downstairs in an hour.”
Frank was waiting at the bottom of the stairs when I descended, his face as unreadable as ever. He took my bag without a word, his eyes briefly cataloging the marks on my neck and the slight limp in my walk.
“You look different,” he said finally.
“Do I?”
“Like you’ve made peace with something.”
I laughed, the sound sharp in the quiet foyer. “Peace isn’t what I’d call it.”
Frank’s expression softened just slightly. “There are worse things than finding your place in the world next to Arrow Romanov, Principessa.”*
“Are you trying to convince yourself or me, Frank?”
Studying him, I caught a flicker of regret pass across his weathered face.
“Both,” he admitted. “You were always meant for bigger things than your father allowed.”
I wanted to be angry at him—for disappearing, for letting me think he was dead, for reappearing in Arrow’s world instead of mine. But the exhaustion of last night, both the party and what came after, had left me hollow of anything but raw honesty.
“I missed you.”
Frank’s eyes softened. “I missed you, too, kid.”
Arrow appeared then, descending the stairs. He wore a black suit now, all traces of our morning washed away except for the bite mark peeking above his collar. His eyes found mine immediately, a silent claim that made my skin prickle with awareness.
“The car’s ready,” he said, his gaze shifting to Frank. “You know what to do.”
Frank nodded. “Yes, boss.”
The title sounded strange coming from Frank’s mouth. So was watching the dynamic between them, trying to understand this new reality where Frank answered to Arrow, where I wore Arrow’s brand around my throat, where everything I’d known had been upended in a matter of weeks.
Arrow walked me down to the car, the cold air pinching my cheeks pink. Instead of hustling me past the staff, though, as we cleared the door, he tugged me hard by the wrist, spinning me to face him under the portico.
He bent close, so close I could see the blood rim of my last bite in perfect, defiant geometry under his jaw. His lips caught mine in a possessive kiss, making sure everyone watching knew I belonged to him. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark.
“Remember what I said last night,” he murmured against my ear. “You’re the most dangerous thing in any room.”
I shivered. “Even with your mark around my neck?”
“Especially with my mark around your neck.” His thumb traced the chain, sliding down to where the A rested. “It makes you untouchable to everyone but me.”
“Why do I feel like I’m a science project?” I teased.
“You always assume you’re the experiment, Harlowe,” he murmured. “But you never ask what the drug does to the scientist.”
Huffing, I tried not to look shaken. “That’s because they usually implode before the subjects get a chance to compare notes.”
He backed me against the pillar, arms boxing me in. “I have no intention of dying first.”
“Relax. You’re too mean to die,” I shot back. “Besides, someone has to teach the offspring sarcasm.”
The words surprised me as much as they surprised him.
Offspring? Get a fucking grip, Harlowe. Jesus fuck.
Arrow let out a bite-sized laugh, almost a bark, and brushed the hair off my face before leading me to a blacked-out Range Rover. He opened the passenger door, and I climbed in. Then he shut the door and got into the driver’s seat.
“Wait, are you my driver today?”
Starting the Range Rover with a flick of his wrist, the dashboard came to life. “Consider it a bonus.” He winked. “Don’t worry, Ivan and Frank are following. Besides, I wanted to see you in daylight. See if you’d melt.” Arrow checked his mirrors, lips twitching with a private joke.
I watched the manor shrink in the side mirror, haunted already—a gothic afterimage I’d never quite shake. I couldn’t help but smirk.
“You know I’ve been in the sun before, right? I did normal girl shit at least five times in my life.”
He merged onto the highway, foot heavy on the accelerator. “What, like shopping and brunch?”