42. Forty-Two
FORTY-TWO
HARLOWE
The car slowed as we approached his building, the sleek glass tower reflecting the city lights like a dark mirror.
I felt hollow, scraped raw from the inside out.
Everything I thought I knew about my brother’s death—about my father—was collapsing around me, the foundations crumbling to reveal uglier truths beneath.
“Why let me go on hating you for it?” I asked as Frank pulled into the underground garage.
Arrow’s thumb traced the inside of my wrist one more time before he released my hand. “Because tomorrow you become my wife. And I want no lies between us, even the ones that might make you hate me less.”
The car stopped, and Frank appeared to open the door.
Arrow stepped out first, then offered me his hand.
I hesitated for a moment before taking it, allowing him to help me from the car.
His touch felt different now—no less dangerous, but somehow more honest. We had both been pawns in a game our fathers started, pieces moved across a bloody chessboard for reasons that had nothing to do with us.
We rode the elevator in silence, my mind racing with the implications of everything Arrow had told me. If my father had orchestrated Luca’s death, what else was he capable of? What other schemes had he set in motion that I was unaware of? The thought sent ice through my veins.
The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, and Arrow guided me into the penthouse with his hand at the small of my back. I kicked off my heels the moment we crossed the threshold, the cool marble floor a relief against my aching feet.
“You should get some rest,” Arrow said, his voice careful and measured. “Tomorrow will be . . . intense.”
I laughed, the sound hollow and brittle.
“That’s one word for it.” I walked to the bar and poured myself a generous measure of whiskey, needing something stronger than the champagne we’d been drinking all evening.
“My father thinks I’m his spy. Your family thinks I’m your weakness.
Everyone’s expecting blood at the altar.
And now I find out my father might have orchestrated my brother’s death.
” I knocked back the whiskey in one burning swallow. “Intense doesn’t begin to cover it.”
Arrow watched me from across the room, his eyes dark and unreadable. He’d loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar, but otherwise looked as composed as ever. I hated him a little for that—his ability to remain controlled when I was falling apart at the seams.
“Do you still want to go through with it?” he asked quietly. “The wedding.”
The question caught me off guard. I set the empty glass down on the bar with a sharp click. “Are you offering me a way out?”
“I’m asking what you want.”
What did I want? What I wanted had never been a consideration before. My entire life had been dictated by my father’s demands, his expectations, his schemes. And now Arrow was asking me, not telling me, not commanding me, but asking what I wanted.
“I want the truth,” I said finally, pouring another measure of whiskey. “All of it. No more secrets, no more half-truths.”
He crossed the room slowly, his movements deliberate as he approached me. He took the glass from my hand, his fingers brushing mine in a touch that felt electric despite its brevity. He set it aside, then cupped my face in his hands, his touch unexpectedly gentle.
“The truth is that I’ve wanted you since the first moment I saw you,” he said. “Not as a pawn, not as a possession, but as the only person in this godforsaken city who could match me. Who could see the darkness in me and not flinch away.”
My breath caught in my throat. This wasn’t the Arrow I knew—the cold, calculating crime lord who took what he wanted and destroyed anyone who stood in his way. This was someone else entirely, someone vulnerable beneath the armor of violence and control.
“Why me?” I whispered, my hands coming up to grip his wrists. Not pushing him away, not pulling him closer—just holding on. “Of all the women in New York, why Giovanni Virelli’s daughter?”
“Because you were never afraid,” Arrow said, his thumbs stroking my cheekbones. “Even when you should have been. Even when any sane person would have been terrified.”
I leaned into his touch. “That’s not bravery. That’s just a broken survival instinct.”
“No,” he said, his voice low and fervent. “It’s strength. The kind that can’t be taught or bought. The kind that’s forged through fire and pain.”
His words resonated in places I’d kept locked away, dark corners where I hid the parts of myself too dangerous to acknowledge. I’d spent years building walls, protecting myself from a world that had never shown me anything but cruelty. And somehow, this man—this enemy—had found the cracks.
“Tomorrow, we stand in that cathedral and make vows neither of us ever expected to make,” Arrow continued, his eyes never leaving mine. “Your father will be watching. My family will be watching. Everyone will be waiting for this to implode.”
“And will it?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
His lips curved into that dangerous smile I’d come to crave. “Not the way they expect.”
He released me then, stepping back just enough to create space between us.
The loss of his touch left me feeling strangely bereft.
I watched as he crossed to the bar and poured himself a drink, his movements precise and controlled.
I watched him drink, the strong column of his throat working as he swallowed. Tomorrow, I would be his wife.
“Do you have regrets?” I asked suddenly. “About any of it?”
Arrow considered the question, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “About Luca? Every day. About us?” His eyes met mine across the dim room. “Not a single one.”
I moved toward him, drawn by some force I couldn’t name. When I reached him, I took the glass from his hand and set it aside. Standing this close, I could see the faint scar along his jawline, and the tiny flecks of gold in his dark eyes that appeared only in certain light.
“I used to dream about killing you,” I admitted, my fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “I had it all planned out—how I’d make you suffer, how I’d watch the life drain from your eyes. Everything I thought I knew was a lie. My father, Luca’s death . . . even my hatred for you.”
Arrow’s other hand slid to my waist, drawing me closer. “Hatred is easier,” he said softly. His hand caught mine, holding it against his face. “And now?”
“Now? Now, I can’t breathe without you, and the part that scares me most is that I don’t want to.”
Arrow’s eyes darkened at my confession, his pupils dilating until there was almost no color left. His grip on my waist tightened, pulling me flush against him.
“Say that again,” he commanded.
“Which part?” I challenged, though I knew exactly what he wanted to hear.
“The part where you can’t breathe without me,” he growled, one hand sliding up to cup the back of my neck. “The part where you’re finally admitting what I’ve known all along.”
I tilted my chin up defiantly. “Why? So you can use it against me?”
“No,” he said, his thumb tracing my bottom lip. “So I can give you what you need.”
“And what’s that?”
His eyes locked with mine, intensity radiating from him in waves. “Everything.”
The word hung between us, simple yet devastating in its implications.
Everything. Not just the physical release we’d found in each other’s bodies, not just the strategic alliance our marriage represented, but something more fundamental.
Something that terrified me more than any threat my father had ever made.
“You can’t give me everything,” I whispered, my hands sliding up his chest to feel his heartbeat beneath my palm. “No one can.”
“Watch me,” he challenged, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that made my skin prickle with anticipation. “Starting tomorrow, there will be no Virellis, no Romanovs. Just us against everyone else.”
I laughed. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It is simple,” he insisted, his fingers threading through my hair, cradling the back of my head. “Choose me. Choose us. The rest is just noise.”
The raw conviction in his voice made something inside me crack open—something I’d kept locked away for so long I’d forgotten it was there. Hope. Not for escape or survival, but for something I’d never dared want: belonging.
“And if I do?” I asked, my voice barely audible. “If I choose you?”
His other hand slid to my throat, thumb pressing gently against my pulse point. Not threatening, just feeling the rhythm of my blood beneath my skin. “Then we burn it all down.”
His declaration was like a match striking tinder inside me.
I surged forward, capturing his mouth with mine.
This kiss was different from our others—not just desire and domination, but something deeper, more dangerous.
His hands tangled in my hair as he backed me against the bar, lifting me onto it with effortless strength.
I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, needing to feel his heart hammering against mine.
“I’ve never had a choice before,” I whispered against his mouth. “My entire life has been decided by others—my father, your family, this war. But this...” I cupped his face in my hands, studying the darkness in his eyes that matched my own. “This is my choice.”
Arrow’s grip tightened, his eyes blazing with something fierce and possessive. “Say it again.”
“I choose you, Arrow Romanov,” I said, the words feeling like both surrender and victory. “I choose us.”
His mouth crashed against mine with renewed hunger, devouring my confession like a man starved. His hands were everywhere—in my hair, at my waist, sliding up my thighs beneath my dress. I clutched at his shoulders, his back, his hair, needing him closer, needing to erase any space between us.
“Take me to bed,” I commanded against his lips. “I want one last night before I’m your wife.”