Page 222 of Arrow

“Tired, Mrs. Romanov?” Arrow asked, his fingers tracing patterns on my arm.

“Just processing,” I replied, watching the city lights blur past the window. “It’s been a day of revelations.”

Arrow’s hand stilled. “Are you angry about your mother? About what I kept from you?”

I considered his question carefully. “I should be. Part of me is. But mostly I’m grateful that she wasn’t alone in the end.” I turned to look at him. “You gave her that much, at least.”

“She was a good woman,” Arrow said softly. “Broken by your father, but good. She loved you fiercely.”

I felt tears threaten again and blinked them back. “I wish I could have known her as an adult. Seen her strength without the shadow of my father’s cruelty.”

Arrow’s arm tightened around me. “You’re more like her than you know. She had that same fire, that same defiance. It just got buried under years of abuse.”

To my pleasant surprise, instead of driving to the penthouse, Frank drove us to Arrow’s home, which looked less like a cage than the last time I was here. The sprawling mansion stood at the end of a long private drive, its windows aglow with warm light. The property had been transformed since my last visit—no longer the cold, imposing fortress it had been, but a home. My home.

“Welcome home, Mrs. Romanov,” Arrow murmured as the car came to a stop.

I looked at him, taking in the softness in his eyes that I’d only glimpsed in our most intimate moments. “Home,” I repeated, testing the word. It felt right on my tongue.

Arrow lifted me from the car, carrying me over the threshold in a gesture so traditional it made me laugh.

“Really?” I teased as he set me down in the foyer. “I didn’t take you for the traditional type.”

He shrugged, already loosening his tie. “Some traditions are worth keeping.”

Immediately upon crossing the threshold of the front door, the entry was lit by dozens of candles, leading up the stairs, casting a golden glow over every space. Blood red roses covered every surface.

“You arranged this?” I asked, turning to face him.

“I may have had some help,” he admitted, moving toward me with that predatory grace I’d come to crave. “But the idea was mine.”

I looked around in wonder, taking in every last detail. The cold, sterile space had been warmed by the candlelight, the flowers bringing life and color to what had once felt like a fortress.

“It’s beautiful,” I whispered, genuinely moved by the effort he’d made.

Arrow’s hand found my waist, pulling me against him. “Not as beautiful as you are tonight,” he murmured, his lips brushing my ear. “Though I’m looking forward to taking this dress off you.”

I shivered at the promise in his voice. “And I’m looking forward to watching you try.”

His eyes darkened, that familiar predatory gleam making my pulse quicken. “Is that a challenge, Mrs. Romanov?”

“Always,” I replied, tilting my chin up defiantly.

Arrow’s smile was slow and dangerous as he led me up the stairs, following the trail of candles. The master bedroom had been transformed as well—rose petals scattered across the bed, more candles casting a warm glow over the space, champagne chilling in an ice bucket.

“Did Luna help you with this?” I asked, unable to keep the surprise from my voice.

Arrow’s expression was almost sheepish. “She may have made some suggestions.”

I laughed, the sound echoing through the room. “I never pegged you for a romantic.”

“I’m not,” he replied, his hands finding the zipper at the back of my dress. “But I know what you deserve.”

The dress loosened, sliding down my shoulders. Arrow’s breath caught as he saw what lay beneath—the red silk nightgown Luna had given me, the “Mrs. Romanov” embroidery catching the candlelight.

“Luna,” I explained, suddenly feeling shy under his intense gaze.

Arrow’s fingers traced the letters across my back, his touch reverent. “Mrs. Romanov,” he whispered, testing the words like fine wine. “It suits you.”