Page 67 of Arrow

My stomach twisted. “I’m not going.”

“You are.” He sliced through a red pepper with a single, clean stroke. “And you’ll be pleasant about it.”

“And if I’m not?” I countered.

He looked up, his eyes finding mine. “I’ll have someone else pick a dress for you. Maybe Katerina would like to choose.”

I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. “You’re a bastard.”

“So I’ve been told.” The knife resumed its rhythm against the cutting board. “The car will be here at ten.”

This domestic version of Arrow—chopping vegetables, making sauce—refused to reconcile with the man who’d made me come apart on his table.

“Why are you doing this?” The question escaped before I could stop it.

Arrow continued chopping, the rhythm unbroken. “Doing what?”

“This.” I gestured around the kitchen. “Making dinner. Acting like we’re just a normal couple about to get married.”

He set the knife down and looked at me, his expression unreadable. “Because we need to eat. Because you’re under my roof now. Because this is how it’s going to be.”

“Until when?”

“Until death do us part,” he replied, his mouth quirking at the corner. “Isn’t that what the vows say?”

Cold spread through my chest. “I’m not saying those vows.”

He turned his attention back to the stove. “You will.”

The certainty in his voice made me want to scream. Pasta sauce bubbled while my world burned. The juxtaposition was obscene.

“Where were you today?” I asked, changing tactics.

“Handling business.” He poured olive oil into a pan and added garlic, filling the kitchen with its sharp scent.

“The kind that leaves bloodstains, or just the kind that ruins lives?”

He glanced at me, something like amusement flickering in his eyes. “Both, usually.”

I moved closer, watching his hands work the knife.

“I’d rather starve than eat anything you make,” I said, but my growling stomach betrayed me.

Arrow glanced up, his eyes catching mine. “Your body seems to disagree.”

He slid a plate in front of me—chicken and pasta in a red sauce that smelled intoxicating. My mouth watered traitorously.

“Eat.”

I sat at the counter and picked up my fork, hesitating. “Is it poisoned?”

His laugh was unexpected, a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the marble countertop. “If I wanted to kill you, Harlowe, I wouldn’t waste good food doing it.”

The fork moved to my mouth almost out of its own accord. Not because he demanded it, but because hunger is a more honest compulsion than loyalty. I’d noticed, too, that Arrow rarely gave direct orders.

“The sooner you realize your resistance is futile, the better off you’ll be.”

I pushed my plate away, still half-full. “I’m done.”