Page 49 of Arrow

Then, a text:

What part of me picking you up at 10 didn’t you understand?

I texted back.

What part of go fuck yourself didn’t YOU understand?

A minute later, my phone vibrated with a photo. It was the outside of the donut shop, Arrow standing on the curb with a cigarette in his hand. The next text was just:

Come out.

I text back.

Make me.

Three dots.

I hurriedly calculated an exit route—there was an alley in the back, and the M train was only eight minutes on foot—when the shop door dinged.

Arrow didn’t glance around. He knew I’d spot him first, that every molecule in me is calibrated to watch for him. He wasn’t wearing the suit today, but he was in black denim jeans and a T-shirt that hugged his biceps and was too thin for this weather. The fucker looked like something you’d find chiseled in granite, and he moved through the donut shop like he owned the place.

The barista nearly dropped the coffee pot, clocking him instantly, then straightened up and stopped pretending to wipe the countertop.

Arrow slid into the booth seat across from me. He leaned forward and locked me in. Up close, his eyes were raw concrete, a gray that knew what it was made of.

“Are you having fun? he asked, his voice frustratingly calm.

I glared at him over my coffee cup. “I was until you showed up.”

“I told you I’d pick you up,” he said.

The student returned with a box of maple bars and set them on the table, hands trembling so hard he nearly dropped the lid.

Arrow’s gaze flicked to him for a nanosecond, then back to me, as if to say, “See how powerful I am.”

The poor kid vanished into the kitchen. Possibly for life.

“I don’t remember inviting you.” I chewed slowly, savoring the taste of cinnamon and grease.

My lipstick smeared across the napkin like blood.

“How do you think this is going to go, Harlowe?”

I looked him dead in the eye. “With you bleeding out before the honeymoon, if I’m lucky.”

He made no move to laugh me off. He regarded me with the patience of a scientist observing mold on a petri dish and decided the best way to win was to stop playing altogether.

The silence between us was so taut I could pick it apart, thread by thread.

“Is that a threat or a wish?” he asked finally, mildly, as if discussing the weather.

“I don’t see the difference,” I said, refusing to blink.

Arrow leaned in, elbows on the Formica, tattooed hands laced together. “You really think you hate me, don’t you?”

“No. I know I do.” I smiled and let it hang there.

He made a noise, not quite laughter, but not quite a growl. “You’re so certain, aren’t you, little viper?”