Page 21 of Arrow

I sat, wondering how many women had occupied this seat before me. How many potential brides had Arrow paraded through this restaurant, evaluating their suitability to bear his name?

“Wine?” Arrow asked as the sommelier appeared at his elbow.

“I don’t care,” I said, unfolding my napkin with unnecessary force.

He ordered something in French, and the sommelier nodded appreciatively before gliding away. I stared at the menu without seeing it, the words blurring before my eyes. Everything felt surreal, as if I were watching my life unfold from outside my body.

“The duck is excellent,” Arrow said, his voice cutting through my thoughts.

I looked up at him, taking in the perfect angles of his face. The restaurant lighting softened his features, but there was nothing soft about Arrow Romanov. Even in repose, he radiated danger.

“I’m not hungry,” I said, setting the menu down.

“You’ll eat anyway.” He closed his own menu without looking at it. “You need your strength.”

“For what?” I asked, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice. “To bear your children? To be a good little mob wife?”

His eyes flicked to mine, something dark passing behind them. “For survival.”

The sommelier returned with a bottle, presenting it to Arrow with practiced deference. After the ritual of tasting and approving, he poured two glasses and disappeared again.

Arrow lifted his glass, the deep red liquid catching the light. “To new beginnings,” he said.

I didn’t touch my wine. “To old grudges.”

His mouth quirked at the corner. “Drink, Harlowe.”

Lifting the glass to my lips, I still didn’t sip. “Why are you doing this? The rings, this lunch. Playing at normalcy when we both know it’s a sham?”

He set his glass down. “Because appearances matter. Soon, you’ll be Mrs. Romanov, and people will be watching. I need them to believe we’re united.”

“Why? So your enemies don’t smell weakness?”

“Exactly.” His honesty was more disarming than any lie could have been. “A house divided is vulnerable. And I protect what’s mine.”

I felt a chill at his words. There it was again—that possessive claim, stated so matter-of-factly that it left no room for debate. In Arrow’s mind, I already belonged to him. The wedding was merely a formality—a public declaration of ownership that had already been decided.

“I’m not yours,” I said, unable to hide the venom in my voice.

“You are.” He signaled to the waiter, who appeared instantly. “We’ll have the duck and the sea bass. And bring another bottle.”

The waiter nodded and retreated. I stared at Arrow, fury building in my chest.

“You didn’t even ask what I wanted.”

“You said you weren’t hungry. That means you forfeit your choice.” He took another sip of wine, his eyes never leaving mine. “Besides, you’ll like the sea bass.”

“How would you know what I like?” I hissed, leaning forward to challenge him.

“I know everything about you, Harlowe.” His voice dropped lower, intimate enough that only I could hear. “Your favorite color is midnight blue, but you wear black to seem harder than you are. You take your coffee black with a single sugar cube that you let dissolve before stirring. You prefer pain to pleasure because it feels more honest. You’ve fucked seventeen men and four women, but you’ve never let any of them stay until morning. You visit your brother’s grave every Sunday with white lilies, even though you hate lilies.” He leaned closer. “And you dream about killing me at least once a day.”

My blood ran cold.

The glass trembled in my hand, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

“You’ve been having me followed.”

“Of course I have.” He said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “You’re valuable.”