Page 65 of Arrow

“Don’t look so ruined,” Arrow said. “You’re exactly where you want to be.”

He said it the way a warden observes that his only inmate never tries to escape, not even when the door’s left open just to see if she’d rather starve than walk out.

“You should get some rest,” he continued. “In a bed.”

I didn’t move. “I’m fine here.”

“That wasn’t a request,” he replied, his voice taking on an edge. He pointed to the stairs.

“I don’t want to be alone right now.” The words came out smaller than I intended, but I didn’t take them back.

That caught him off guard. His expression shifted, and I glimpsed something almost human behind his mask. He recovered quickly, but not before I saw the uncertainty.

“You’re not going to try to slit your wrists with my kitchen knives?”

“Would it matter if I did?” I asked.

Arrow studied me, his head tilting slightly. “Yes.”

“Because I’m your property now? Wouldn’t want to damage the merchandise.”

“Because it would be a waste,” he said simply. “And I don’t like waste.”

My laugh echoed in the vast kitchen. “So, what now, killer? We play house until the wedding? You keep me locked up here like some twisted fairytale?”

He moved toward me, and I tensed, expecting him to grab me again. Arrow leaned against the counter beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body and smell the clean scent of his soap.

“You’re not locked up, Harlowe. The doors aren’t bolted. The guards won’t stop you. You could walk out right now if you wanted.”

“And go where?” I whispered. “Back to my father, who’ll just sell me to someone worse when you’re done with me? To La Lune Noire, where you’ll just find me again?” The tears I’d been holding back spilled down my cheeks. “There’s nowhere left to run. You’ve made sure of that.”

Arrow’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes did—a flicker of what might have been understanding.

“That’s the first honest thing you’ve said since I brought you here.”

I wiped my face with the back of my hand. “I hate you so fucking much.”

“I know.” He didn’t sound bothered by it. “But you hate yourself more.”

I flinched, unable to deny it. He saw through me with such brutal clarity it left me breathless.

“Come upstairs,” he said, not a command this time but not quite a request either.

Too exhausted to argue with him, I followed. My legs moved of their own accord, up the spiral staircase to the bedroom he’d given me.

At the doorway, he paused. “Sleep.”

“Is that it?” I whispered. “After what happened downstairs?”

“What did you think would happen, Harlowe? That I’d force you to fuck me on your first night here?”

“Isn’t that what Romanovs do? Take what they want?”

His jaw tightened. “I’m not interested in fucking women who don’t want me as badly as I want them.” He stepped back, creating space between us. “Go to bed, moya malen’kaya ved’ma. You’ve had enough trauma for one night.”

I stood in the doorway, swaying slightly. “I don’t understand you.”

“You don’t have to.” His eyes traced over my face, lingering on the bruise my father had left. “Understanding isn’t required for this arrangement.”