Page 117 of Arrow

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.