Page 30 of Arrow

“Fine,” I hissed, turning my back to him. “Enjoy the show.”

Peeling off my tank top, my skin prickled with awareness. His eyes were on me, tracing the contours of my bare back, lingering on the bruises that hadn’t yet faded from my last session at La Lune Noire. I hooked my thumbs into my underwear, hesitating for just a second before sliding them down and stepping out of them, completely naked.

Let him look.

Let him see that even though he’d claimed me, marked me, tracked me down, my body was still mine.

I could feel his gaze like a physical touch trailing down my spine. The air in the cheap motel room felt charged and electric. Reaching for my dress, I took my time sliding it over my head, making him wait. Making him watch.

“Satisfied?” I asked, turning to face him.

His expression hadn’t changed, but something in his eyes had—a darkness, a hunger that made my mouth go dry. He stepped aside, gesturing toward the door.

“After you.”

I grabbed my purse, trying to ignore how my hands trembled. The hangover wasn’t helping, nor was the lingering vodka taste coating my tongue. I needed water, aspirin, and about a thousand miles between Arrow Romanov and me.

“Where are you taking me?” I asked, hating the vulnerability in my voice.

“Home.”

The next afternoon, Madame Isadora intercepted me at the velvet-roped vestibule of La Lune Noire with an envelope in her hand.

“Darling,” she purred, “your fiancé wishes to observe your work tonight.”

I snapped the envelope open. Inside was a black card with cursive handwriting.

Tonight. 11 PM. Wear the collar.

-Arrow

He’d sealed it with melted wax, stamped with the Romanov crest, as if I were being summoned to an execution.

“Did the sadist specify what kind of show?”

Isadora’s mouth curled into a sly smile. “Something memorable, I suspect. The room with the mirrored glass.”

I didn’t flinch. The club’s exhibition suite, where regulars could watch on one side of the two-way, was invisible to those on display. Magnified humiliation. I’d played in it before, but never with Arrow watching in the dark.

“Are you going to warn me about anything else?” I asked.

She gave me a look that said she pitied me, and maybe she did.

“He paid for absolute discretion. But I would make it . . . exclusive. If he’s pleased, he’s agreed to let me double your cut for the night.” She spun to leave, her heels scoring arpeggios down the onyx floor.

“How generous,” I scoffed.

I dressed for my Arrow-exclusive showcase. Latex corset, the dark color resembling that of dried blood, laced so tight my ribs ached. No bra, no panties—club rules, or maybe just mine. The collar, heavy around my neck, caught in the hollow of my throat.

If I were being honest, I liked being collared by a powerful man. However, when that man was Arrow Romanov, he could eat shit before I let him know that.

Two minutes before showtime, I stood in the dressing room, staring at myself in the vintage mirror. My lips were blood red, my lashes spiked and bordered in kohl, and I’d painted a Romanov teardrop beneath one eye as a fuck-you to the man watching from the other side of the glass. I ran a finger along the inside of the collar, pressing until it pinched, and wondered if Arrow would be hard the first time he saw me broken, or if he’d prefer to do it himself.

Zephyr met me in the corridor, already stripped to the waist and gleaming with oil, a black silk mask over the top half of his face. He watched the way my hips moved, the little shake in my knees, and put a hand on my bare shoulder.

“You ready?” he asked.

“For you, for this, always. But for the asshole in the audience, absolutely fucking never,” I said.