Page 123 of Arrow

“You can’t shock me, Arrow.”

He looked up, eyes so clear that it made the rest of him look even more wrecked. “Have you ever seen what happens when a man thinks he’s already dead?”

I shook my head.

“He stops watching who else is left in the room.”

Hooking a finger in my chain, he used it to pull my head toward his. “You want me to stop?”

“No,” I said, because it was true.

Arrow let out a slow sigh, pushing his pants down just enough to reveal the V of his hips—inked skin and blood splatter—and the faint line of dark hair trailing down to his cock. His eyes found mine as he reached for the gold chain at my neck, his fingers tracing the gold links slowly, deliberately, leaving rust-colored smears against my skin.

“There was a leak. Two Virelli men, maybe three, paid to end the engagement. They made it as far as the building across the street, to a high floor, with a sniper kit in the window. Frank caught the play before they chambered a round. He, Orion, and I went up together.”

He paused, then his mouth twisted into something cruel. Not pride. Something worse.

“They were both cousins of yours, I think. You want to know the names?”

Grinning wide, I felt Arrow manipulate the chain—pulling it tight, letting it go slack, playing it like a leash.

“Let them enjoy the afterlife. I never liked family reunions.”

He shrugged and made one last pass with the chain, dragging it slowly across my collar before letting it fall.

“Thought you’d say that.”

Standing there, hair dripping, silver eyes brimming with full-spectrum unspeakability, the muscles in his face quivered with the effort of control.

Arrow Romanov was not a man who ever sought comfort, but in the animal darkness of the bathroom, stripped down to skin and teeth, I saw what hunger looked like beyond performance. It was a death mask peeled back to reveal a raw need for warmth—for being wanted, not just endured.

I reached for the towel and pressed it to the bleeding scratch at his shoulder. His chest was still slick with water and blood. My body was exhausted, aching, strung out from hours of him.

But we didn’t separate.

We stood there in that narrow space, not touching, but not leaving either.

“You’re not repulsed by me.”

Not a question.

Thumbing a clot of blood from a cut on his eyebrow, I licked it, watching what it did to him.

“Why would I be?”

Arrow blinked and swallowed hard enough that I could see his vocal cords knock against the skin.

“Most girls want to play at darkness; they don’t actually want to see it eat.”

“Lucky for you, I like a little carnage with my afterglow.”

Barking a laugh, he looked genuinely young, full of nerves and unfinished need, a messy animal who still wanted to impress the girl with his war wounds. He splayed his hands on the edge of the sink, water from his dark hair dripping onto the marble and down his chest.

“You ever shoot anyone?” he asked.

The question was weirdly tender, like an offer.

“No, but I have excellent aim with a switchblade and I once nearly took off a man’s thumb with a wine opener.”