Page 85 of Arrow
“What does the great Giovanni Virelli know about his daughter’s extracurricular activities?”
“I don’t give a fuck what he knows. I don’t give a fuck what he thinks. I don’t need his absolution,” I replied, voice flint and skin. “He signed it away on the dotted line.”
Arrow’s jaw tensed. “I see. You must believe that absolves you, then.”
“Enough.” I twisted to look at him, daring him to flinch. “It means I get to ruin myself however I want. What I don’t understand is why you care. It doesn’t matter whether I get off in a dog collar or a wedding dress.”
He turned to me, then, one arm across the backrest, the other resting at his knee, face composed in that perfect, ageless calm I’d started to recognize as his most honest self.
Considering me for a moment, he reached into the cupholder and drew out a joint—slim and expertly rolled. He offered it to me first, and I took it.
He lit it for me with a flick, and I inhaled deeply, coughed, and watched the smoke coil between us while he watched me.
“I don’t have a signature, Arrow. That’s the whole point.” The metallic aftertaste of defiance lingered. “I’m nobody’s.”
“Yet.”
The words came like a god’s—spoken by a man who knew that the end of every stubborn girl’s story was a name signed in blood and a wedding ring soldered into her bone. He took the joint from my fingers and stubbed it out on the edge of the door panel.
“Get some sleep,” he said, and for once, there was no venom behind the command.
I considered telling him to fuck off—I always did—but the ache in my spine, and the hot hum of the pain in my leg, overrode the instinct. Instead, I stared out at the city.
Manhattan pulsed, indifferent. The rhythm of passing streetlights lulled me toward something like rest.
Next thing I knew, we were pulling up to Arrow’s manor.
He scooped me from my side of the car before the doors even finished unlocking, one arm under my knees and the other braced strongly across my back. The touch was impersonal by design, but I could feel the life in his hands, the electricity of a body that never forgot what it wanted to do to a living, breathing girl.
Arrow walked me up the marble steps, and the guard stationed at the door nodded, opening it until it swung wide, the house pulsing awake with the subtle activation of lights, alarms, and eyes on every surface.
Setting me upright in the entryway, he stood back, waiting for me to make a move.
I staggered two steps forward, found my balance, and only then noticed the figure in the shadows at the end of the hall—Natalya, very much alive, hair slicked wet and slicked back, eyes narrowed with malice. I’d embarrassed her by escaping right under her nose, and I was confident she’d find a way to make me pay for it.
She perched on the edge of the foyer’s wooden bench, a pale blue icepack pressed to one temple.
“Nice show,” she drawled, voice slurred just enough to telegraph the aftereffects of my cocktail. Her gaze didn’t stray from my face. “You’re a regular fucking Houdini, Harlowe.”
“Don’t you look well-rested?” I grinned.
Natalya sneered. “Didn’t need to drug me to escape, milaya devochka.* Arrow would’ve let you go eventually. He likes to pretend he has mercy.”
“Clearly.”
Arrow’s hand slid to my lower back, applying just enough pressure to steer me toward the stairs. “That’s enough, Natalya. Go home.”
She shrugged, pushing herself up from the bench with exaggerated effort. “Sure thing, cousin. I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone.” Her gaze lingered on me. “Just remember what I said, Harlowe. He doesn’t like hurting women. But he will.”
“Get out,” Arrow hissed.
Natalya smirked, grabbed her coat, and sauntered to the door. “Sweet dreams, Virelli. Don’t let the monsters bite.” The door closed behind her with a soft click that somehow felt more threatening than a slam.
Frozen in the entryway, every muscle in my body ached. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving me hollow and shaky.
Arrow’s hand stayed on my back. “Let’s go, Houdini.” He nudged me up toward the stairs.
Turning to face him, I planted my feet in protest.
