Page 71 of Arrow

It was, without question, the most beautiful dress I’d ever seen, and I hated it with every fiber of my being.

Mrs. Montalto circled me, making small adjustments. “This is a masterpiece,” she whispered. “Alexander McQueen created it for your coloring and figure. The way it frames you is divine. Mr. Romanov specifically requested something unexpected.”

Arrow’s reaction was immediate. His pupils dilated, his body tensing forward in the chair as his eyes tracked the curve of my back, lingering when the fabric stopped right above my ass. I watched his throat work as he swallowed, his knuckles whitening where his hands gripped the arm of his chair.

The entire room seemed to hold its breath.

“This is the one,” he said.

“No.” I glared at him through the mirrors.

“Uhm.” Mrs. Montalto cleared her throat. “Perhaps Miss Virelli would like to try on a few more options? We have several⁠—”

“This is the dress,” Arrow interrupted, standing from his chair and approaching the platform.

He circled me slowly, tracking every detail.

“It’s too revealing,” I argued, though that wasn’t my real objection. My real objection was that he wanted it.

His fingers traced the lace pattern along my exposed spine. “That’s the point.”

“I don’t care what you think. I’m the one who has to wear it.”

“And you will wear it beautifully,” he replied, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that made my stomach clench. “This is the dress.”

Mrs. Montalto wrung her hands, clearly uncomfortable with our thinly-veiled hostility. “Perhaps Miss Virelli and Mr. Romanov would like a moment alone to discuss?”

“There’s nothing to discuss,” Arrow said, his eyes still locked with mine in the mirror. “This is the dress she’ll wear when she becomes my wife.”

I saw red.

The audacity of this man to dictate what I would wear on my body—to parade me around like his personal doll. I stepped off the platform, pushing away from Mrs. Montalto’s fluttering hands.

“You don’t get to decide,” I hissed, moving into Arrow’s space, standing toe-to-toe with the man who towered over me.

His eyes darkened. “I told you to behave.”

“Fuck you,” I spat, stepping backward. “You think you can dress me like a doll? Parade me around in front of your men like a trophy you’ve won?”

“Lower your voice,” he warned, his tone deadly quiet.

The assistants froze, eyes wide, sensing the danger crackling between us.

My laugh was high-pitched and brittle. “Will you punish me? Right here in front of all these nice people?” I gestured wildly at the room. “Go ahead. Show them what kind of monster you really are.”

Arrow moved so fast I barely registered it. His hand wrapped around my upper arm, grip like steel, as he leaned in close. “Don’t test me, malen’kaya gadyuka,”⁠* he whispered, his breath hot against my ear. “Not here.”

I tried to wrench away, but he held firm. “Let go of me.”

“Are you done with your tantrum?” His voice was calm and reasonable, which only infuriated me more.

“I’m not wearing this dress.”

His eyes hardened. “Yes, you are.”

“I’d rather walk down the aisle naked.”

Something dangerous flickered across his face. “That can be arranged too.”