Page 80 of Arrow

Rewinding the footage three times, I tracked her slipping through the window—watched the pain register in her jaw as she hit the ground, then ran, scaling the wall until she vanished. I let the moment play until the screen cut to static, until the only trace of her was the blood smear she left on the glass and a tuft of black hair caught in the latch.

I rarely found joy in my own undoing, but there was something so nakedly honest in her escape that it struck me as divine.

Giovanni’s daughter, ripe with hatred for my bloodline, ran headlong, knowing there was only one place in the city she could run where I wouldn’t kill her outright.

The elevator ride down felt eternal.

Cutting through the lobby, I passed the sleeping concierge with his crossword puzzle face down on the security counter, and into the garage. My car fired to life, and I sped through the city.

Even in my father’s day, the hunt had been the point—the only time any of us felt true. I let my hands fall to the wheel, closed my eyes, and let the ghosts tell me where to find her. There were only so many places a girl like Harlowe could run with blood on her knees, hate in her heart, and no one left in the world who’d believe she needed saving.

She would be at the only place she felt whole.

La Lune Noire was empty now, the hush so deep it made every footstep sound like blasphemy. Not even the air wanted to ruffle the velvet drapes, hanging limp as the tables vanished into the shadows. Above the stage, the rose window had gone from neon pink to a dead blue.

At the altar. Of course. Where else would an exile break curfew—a devil’s daughter hug themselves tight in the only place that wouldn’t reject her?

Kneeling, her head bowed low over the rails where so many men had mouthed prayers and left curses. Wet hair clung to her face. Her hands trembled.

She hadn’t heard me enter.

I’d let her have the last pretense of solitude—that much I’d give her.

Arms folded, I stayed at the rear, watching her mouth move silently, working through a script of confessions she’d never meant to speak aloud. After five minutes, she looked up and saw me. The flash of hate in her eyes was so clear, so bereft of anything but the primal joy of being alive and unbroken.

I walked toward her.

Each step was deliberate, chewing through the silence, until I stood at her shoulder. She didn’t flinch, didn’t scramble back, just stared up at me, lips parted, as if caught mid-declaration. The sleeplessness made her irises silver, the veins in her eyes red. I stood in the hush and waited for her to tell me to get fucked.

She didn’t.

“Will you at least let me finish my prayer?” Harlowe asked, and the wrecked softness in her voice bored a hole through my spine.

“It won’t be answered,” I replied, but kept my hands at my sides—better to let her believe herself a martyr on her own schedule.

Her desperate laugh rattled the stained glass. “Not even the devil’s daughter gets a day off, huh?”

“You had your chance.” The candlelight flickered across the bruise along her jaw. “You’re bleeding. Right leg.”

She looked down, as if only just noticing the slashed leggings and the bright ribbon running down her shin. “It’s just a scratch.”

I knelt.

Then, for the first time all night, I looked at her. There was no lessening in her stare, not a drop of humility or hope.

Harlowe Virelli would sooner bleed to death, whispering slurs at my family than surrender an inch she’d already taken.

She refused to look away even as her leg twitched under her. Her chin lifted, and I could see how beautiful she’d be if she were capable of ordinary human needs, like rest or affection.

That wasn’t her gene pool. Virellis gorged themselves on hate.

“You knew I’d come here?”

She said it the way a wolf asks a trap if it’s impressed.

“Perhaps. But I hoped you’d make the hunt at least interesting.”

She scoffed. “What’s the plan then, killer? Drag me back to your house and try to court me with more pasta and implied murder?”