Page 106 of Arrow

At ten sharp, the evening’s official “toast” was called to order by the event MC—a senator’s grandson with the air of someone who’d never gotten his hands dirty. He tapped the mic, trembling, and scanned the room for Arrow’s permission before daring to speak.

“Friends, tonight we are witnessing history—two great houses, once at war, now joined. Please, raise your glasses to Arrow Romanov and Harlowe Virelli.”

He butchered my name.

Arrow lifted his glass precisely as the rest did, the gesture so practiced that he might have been raising a knife for the finished cut. His eyes met mine over the rim, holding, holding, then skimming over the assembly as if he could auction every soul in the room to the highest bidder.

Then I caught, out of the corner of my eye, a shadow at the balcony—someone not part of the standing ovation, not drinking, not even clapping. Just watching. Black Virelli suit, slicked-back hair, and that old familiar smile.

Frank.

My pulse didn’t skip. It detonated.

Arrow caught the shift in my focus, and when he followed my gaze, his jaw set so hard I heard a tooth creak.

“Frank’s alive?”

He nodded.

“You knew?”

Of course, he knew.

There are no secrets in the upper levels of the carnivore city, only deferred declarations of war.

“He has terrible timing.”

“What?”

“He wasn’t supposed to show for another half hour.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I bought him from your father.”

“Bought him?”

“His life. He’s working for me now.” Arrow’s eyes flickered with a hungry pride. “Consider it an engagement present.”

“Wh-why?” I couldn’t wrap my mind around what was happening.

“Frank has protected you your entire life. He was more of a father to you than Giovanni. I have full confidence he would give his life if that meant you were safe. Seemed like that’s exactly the type of man I want in my employ, protecting my wife when I’m not here.”

Wife.

That’s the first time Arrow called me “wife,” and fuck, something coiled hot between my thighs. I tore my eyes from the balcony and looked up at Arrow, seeing him in a different light. It was like catching your reflection in a stranger’s eyes. An alien intimacy, a flash of possibility that knocked the air out of my lungs. My body gravitated toward him until I was pressed against his side.

His hand, strong and warm around my waist, anchored me to the room. Arrow’s voice was soft enough that only I could hear it. “If you want to say hello, just ask.”

“Not yet.”

My eyes skittered to the balcony again—Frank’s smile was gone, replaced by a cool, blank, professional gaze I’d never seen him wear in my direction.

The senator’s grandson fumbled through the rest of the toast, now sweating through his tux, while all around us, the energy of the room changed. Eyes that had held only hunger or envy, moments ago now carried relief.

It gave me clarity—absurd but perfect in Arrow’s world.

As the speech wound down, Arrow leaned in so his stubble rasped my jaw, his lips skating a breath beneath my ear. “Go to him now, if you want.”