Page 34 of Arrow

“Zephyr—”

“Let me say this.” His voice carried that old authority, but it was soft now. “You were always going to belong to someone like him. Someone who doesn’t ask permission, who takes what he wants. The only difference now is you want him to.” He stepped back, gave me space. “That’s not a punishment. That’s just the difference between surrender and choice.” He met my eyes in the mirror one last time. “When you need a safe word, you know where to find me. Always.”

I walked home alone, letting the city’s acid-bright chill carve the last dregs of adrenaline from my skin. Every step was a dare to the skyline: do it again; prove you can’t be hurt. I climbed the stairs to my room, avoiding the guards’ eyes, and locked the door, savoring the slam as it echoed through the empty marble hall. Stripping off my clothes, I ran a bath so hot it nearly burned.

Afterwards, I slunk to bed with the collar still on. Even naked, it felt heavier than the duvet, pinning me to the mattress. I slept, and in my dreams, Arrow was everywhere—hands, voice, teeth—all the ways a man could own a girl and never have to say it out loud. I woke up twice, mid-scream, biting down on my knuckles to chase the taste of his skin from my tongue.

10

TEN

ARROW

Goddamn the Virelli princess’s mouth.

After finding her in the motel room, remembering the way she performed a rebellious striptease in front of me, then at the club—watching her submit to another man’s hands—something primal had awakened in me. I’d tasted her defiance on my tongue when I kissed her. Felt her hatred vibrating through her teeth as she fought not to bite down on my cock.

I stood under the shower, letting scalding water pound against my shoulders as I replayed the image of her on her knees, mascara streaming down her face, the obsidian collar gleaming against her throat. The way she’d looked at me with pure venom even as she swallowed.

Mine.

The thought was primitive, possessive in a way I rarely allowed myself to be. I wasn't a man who formed attachments. I acquired assets, neutralized threats, and maintained control.

Women, in my experience, had always been predictable. Possessions to be acquired, used, and discarded when they no longer served a purpose.

But Harlowe Virelli wasn’t just another acquisition. She was becoming an obsession. She fought me at every turn, her hatred burning so bright it could blind a man less controlled than me. It was like trying to tame a wildfire.

I turned off the shower and reached for a towel. The wedding was approaching, and I needed her to be compliant enough to stand beside me at the altar without causing a scene. The world needed to see us united, even if, privately, we were at war.

Which led me to seek her out in the only place she couldn’t stay away from.

The next night, La Lune Noire was winding down, but the place was still full of couples fucking as they watched the show on the stage. My gaze followed theirs, and I knew she’d be there. She needed the release in the way the wounded needed to prove they’re still breathing. There was a part of me that enjoyed the push-and-pull, the absolute way she defied social norms and expected behavior of a Virelli princess.

I pushed my way through the perfume-heavy crowd, ignoring the hands that brushed against my sleeve, the eyes that followed my progress with hungry recognition. The Romanov heir in a sex club made for good gossip, but I wasn’t here for entertainment.

Harlowe was on stage, again and always, as if she’d only ever existed on stages, with a halo of bruises on her thighs and her neck. They were stark and deliberate against her olive skin and the sheer white slip she wore.

Zephyr held the stage with her, lacing a leather belt around her waist. The buckle gleamed in the blue lights overhead. She let her head fall to one side, exposing her neck, and shot a look through the dim light like she was daring anyone to claim her.

Standing on the threshold, I could have ended the show with a snap of my fingers, but I wanted to see how far she’d go.

The dom’s fingers played at the edges of her shoulder blades, a touch so rehearsed it was barely a touch at all, just the threat of more. It measured the silent plea in her posture—wreck me, but do it faster than he can. She needed an audience for her undoing.

She sank to her knees without prompting, the fabric pooling into a puddle of silk, and he drew the belt taut behind her back, binding her elbows tight. Tilting her chin, her onyx hair streamed over her shoulder, and the naked grace of her skin made the crowd lean in, hungry for the moment when the pain would collapse into spectacle or mutiny.

I tracked the twitch in Zephyr’s jaw, the practiced shake in his hands as he planted one palm on the top of her head and pressed down, pinning her like a specimen for the gods to judge.

Her mouth parted, first in a gasp, then in a smile. He wrapped the belt once, then twice around her elbows, cinching them hard against the line of her back. Then, he wrapped a leather strap around her throat, threading it through the ring at the front of the belt.

It wasn’t torture, not yet, but in the silence, you could hear the air narrow in her windpipe, the hush of self-betrayal as his thumb found the hinge of her jaw.

The crowd drank it up. It was a communion of prurience and envy, with all those couples in their fancy clothes and rented selves, loving her for what they wished they could do with impunity.

Harlowe didn’t resist the hands on her or the eyes; she made a meal of it. Her hips tilted forward, her knees bruised by the floor, and her gaze swept the club until she found me in the dark.

She flinched, just once, a half-second flicker, like a clock’s hand skipping a number. Zephyr saw it, and so did I. He leaned into her, mouth to her ear, but his eyes cut to mine, as if to say: “There’s only so much I can do before she breaks in two.”

Harlowe stared at him, silently, but never flinched. Then she made the only move she could, opening her mouth, jaw slack, and let him push two fingers between her lips. She bit, holding them between her teeth until Zephyr jerked, beads of sweat at his brow, and forced her open wider, prying the jaw with brutal sweetness.