41. Forty-One #2
Arrow’s hand tightened at my waist. “Anything you have to say to her, you can say in front of me.”
“It’s fine,” I said, placing my hand on Arrow’s chest. “Give me two minutes.”
Arrow hesitated, jaw tight as he assessed my father. I could feel the tension between them, a living thing crackling with violence barely contained beneath the surface of civility.
“Thirty seconds,” Arrow finally agreed, stepping back just enough to give us the illusion of privacy while remaining close enough to intervene if necessary. His eyes never left my father’s face, a predator watching his prey.
My father gripped my elbow and guided me a few steps away, his fingers digging into my skin with familiar cruelty. I refused to wince, meeting his gaze with the same defiance I’d perfected as a child.
“That little display was beneath you,” he hissed, voice low enough that only I could hear. “Throwing yourself at him like a common whore.”
“Is that what bothers you? That I’m enjoying what you forced on me?” I kept my smile in place, aware of the eyes watching us from across the room. “Or is it that your plan is already failing?”
His nostrils flared. “You think this is a game? That boy will destroy you the moment you outlive your usefulness.”
“Like you tried to destroy me?” I challenged. “At least he’s honest about his intentions.”
My father’s laugh was bitter. “Honest? You naive child. The Romanovs have never been honest a day in their lives. They killed your brother. They would have killed you too if they didn’t see a better use for you.”
“And what use do you see for me?” I asked, keeping my voice steady despite the anger surging through me. “A spy? A sacrificial lamb? Or just a daughter you can finally be rid of?”
“I see a Virelli. My blood. The only family I have left.”
“Family?” I laughed, the sound sharp enough to draw glances from nearby guests. “You sold me to the Romanovs. What kind of father does that?”
“The kind who knows his daughter is stronger than anyone gives her credit for.” His eyes, so like mine, held something I’d never seen before—a grudging respect. “I didn’t sell you to the Romanovs, Harlowe. I placed you in their midst. Like a virus they won’t see until it’s too late.”
I studied him, this man who’d shaped me through cruelty and neglect. Who’d taught me to be ruthless by giving me no other choice. “You actually believe that, don’t you? That this was all part of some master plan.”
“Everything I’ve ever done has been part of a plan.” His fingers tightened on my arm. “Including this. Remember who you are. Whose blood runs in your veins.”
“Time’s up,” Arrow’s voice cut between us, his hand settling possessively at my waist. “We’re leaving.”
My father’s eyes hardened as he looked from Arrow to me. “This isn’t over,” he said quietly. “Blood always calls to blood in the end.”
“Goodbye, Father,” I replied, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me. “I’ll see you at the church.”
Arrow guided me through the crowd, his body a shield between me and the curious eyes that followed our exit.
Frank was already waiting with the car, door open, eyes constantly scanning for threats.
Once we were safely inside, I felt the tension drain from my body, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion that made my limbs feel heavy.
“Are you okay?” Arrow asked as the car pulled away from the curb.
I stared out the window at the city lights blurring past. “I don’t know what I am anymore.”
His hand found mine in the darkness, fingers intertwining with mine. The gesture was unexpectedly gentle, at odds with the violence that usually defined our interactions. I found myself clinging to that touch like an anchor in a storm.
“What did he say to you?” Arrow asked after a moment of silence.
I turned to look at him, studying his profile in the dim light. The sharp angle of his jaw, the darkness in his eyes that matched my own. “He said blood always calls to blood in the end. That he placed me with the Romanovs like a virus.”
Arrow’s jaw tightened. “Do you believe him?”
“I don’t know what to believe anymore.” I laughed bitterly. “He’s spent my entire life making me doubt myself, manipulating me. Why would this be any different?”
Arrow’s fingers tightened around mine. “Because this time, he’s not controlling the narrative. We are.”
I stared down at our interlaced fingers, struck by how natural it felt to have his hand wrapped around mine. Not grabbing, not restraining—just connecting.
“Your speech tonight,” I said, watching his face carefully. “Was that part of the plan? Making everyone believe there’s something real between us?”
His expression shifted, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “Does it matter?”
“It matters to me.”
He was silent for a long moment, his thumb tracing patterns on my palm. “It wasn’t planned,” he finally said. “But it wasn’t a lie either.”
The admission hung between us, fragile and dangerous. I didn’t know what to do with it—this glimpse of something beyond our carefully constructed game of power and revenge. It was easier when we were just using each other, when the rules were clear. This new territory felt treacherous, unmapped.
“Tomorrow,” he said, changing the subject, “everything changes.”
“Does it?” I asked. “Or is it just making official what’s already happened?”
He turned to face me fully, his eyes searching mine in the dim light. “What do you think has already happened, Harlowe?”
I held his gaze, refusing to be the first to look away. “Something I’m not sure either of us expected,” I admitted, the words feeling like a confession pulled from somewhere deep inside me. “This was supposed to be a business arrangement. A ceasefire. But now . . .”
“Now?” he prompted, his voice low and intimate in the darkness of the car.
I looked down at our intertwined fingers. “Now I don’t know what this is. But it’s not just business anymore.”
Arrow’s thumb traced the inside of my wrist, following the delicate blue veins there. The tenderness of the gesture felt more intimate than any of the ways he’d claimed my body before.
“No,” he agreed. “It’s not just business.”
We rode in silence for several minutes, the city lights painting his face in alternating shadows and gold.
I watched his profile, cataloging each angle and plane as if seeing him for the first time.
The sharp jaw that tightened when he was angry.
The full lips that could deliver both cruelty and unexpected gentleness.
The eyes that saw through every defense I’d ever built.
“What happens after tomorrow?” I asked, my voice barely audible above the hum of the engine.
Arrow turned to me, his expression unreadable. “We rule together. We build something new from the ashes of our families’ war.”
“And if my father tries to use me against you?”
“He’ll fail,” Arrow said with absolute certainty. “Because he fundamentally misunderstands what’s between us.”
His answer was frustratingly vague, yet somehow still managed to make my pulse race.
I turned away, watching the city blur past the window.
Buildings glowed against the night sky—some dark, some blazing with light, like stars fallen to earth.
Tomorrow I’d be married in a cathedral filled with people who wanted us dead.
My father expected me to betray Arrow. Arrow expected...
what exactly? For me to be his queen? His partner? His possession?
“You never told me what happened,” I said suddenly. “With my brother.”
I felt him go perfectly still beside me, his breath catching. The air in the car seemed to thicken, charged with tension.
“You want to talk about that now? The night before our wedding?”
“When is better?” I turned to face him. “If I’m going to stand in that cathedral tomorrow and say vows to you, I need to know the truth.”
Arrow’s jaw tightened, that familiar muscle jumping beneath his skin. He stared straight ahead, his profile sharp against the passing lights. For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer.
“It wasn’t supposed to happen that way,” he finally said, his voice low. “It was meant to be a meeting. Territory negotiations.”
“And?”
“Your brother came with four men. I was there with my uncle Dmitri.” Arrow’s voice grew tight, as if the words were physically painful to speak. “The agreement was simple—neutral ground, minimal security. A gesture of good faith.”
I held my breath, afraid that if I interrupted him now, he’d close off again. The car’s interior suddenly felt smaller, the air between us charged with ghosts.