Page 87 of Arrow

And I sat on the edge of the bed, legs open, the bandage weeping just a trace of red through the gauze.

Sleep never came.

At three a.m., I wandered into the bathroom and stepped into the shower. My hands trembled as I scrubbed blood from my thighs. Back in bed, I curled under the covers, pressed the pillow to my face, and screamed. Tossing and turning, I finally threw the sheets off me and tiptoed downstairs for a snack, searching for something to quiet the noise in my head.

Natalya was perched on the kitchen counter, headphones in, mashing the buttons of a Nintendo Switch as though she could brute-force her way to an extra life. Her focus didn’t waver when I entered—if anything, her fingers moved faster, eyes glued to the screen.

“I thought Arrow sent you home.” I scoffed.

Natalya’s eyes flicked to me, then back to her game. “I don’t follow his orders; I just let him think I do.” She paused the game and set it aside, sizing me up. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks. I feel worse.”

I opened the refrigerator, scanning for anything that might settle my stomach. The bright light made my head pound.

“He’s not going to let you go, you know.” Natalya’s voice was matter-of-fact, almost bored. “Not after this little stunt. You’ve only made it worse for yourself.”

Grabbing a bottle of water, I slammed the fridge door. “Why are you still here? Don’t you have someone else to terrorize?”

She slid off the counter, moving with that predatory grace all Romanovs seemed to possess. “Arrow’s father asked me to stay. Said you might need watching after your . . . adventure.”

“His father?” I froze, the water bottle halfway to my lips. “Why does he care what adventures I go on?”

Her smile was sharp enough to cut. “He doesn’t—not really. But Anatoly Romanov still likes to keep tabs on his only son. Especially when his son is about to marry a Virelli bitch—I mean, the only daughter of Giovanni Virelli. You’re practically a collector’s item.”

“I’m not a fucking baseball card.”

“No.” She pushed off the counter and moved toward me, stopping just close enough to make me uncomfortable. “You’re much more valuable. And much more dangerous.”

“Then maybe you should watch yourself.” I sneered, not backing down.

Natalya laughed. “Maybe.” She moved closer, examining the bandage on my leg. “Nice work. Did he do that for you?”

“What’s it to you?”

She shrugged. “Just curious. Arrow doesn’t play doctor. He’s not exactly known for his . . . bedside manner.”

I took a long drink of water, trying to ease the dryness in my throat. “I don’t need his bedside manner or yours.”

The knife spun between her fingers in a lazy circle. Her tongue kept time with a Click. Click. Click. “Arrow’s got plans for you—ones even you can’t dodge. You’re property now.”

My head shook in defiance, but she was probably right. “You always this much of a nihilist?”

“Only when I’m awake.” She watched me with eyes that could blink between sympathy and sociopathy in a heartbeat.

We stared at each other across a kitchen island.

“He isn’t marrying me for love.”

“That’s what they always say . . . at first.” Natalya side-eyed the skin that wasn’t covered by my nightgown, noting the purpling at my collarbone. “But you’ll see. Romanovs get sentimental in the end. It’s their curse, and their downfall.”

I wondered if she was warning herself or me.

When I returned to the fridge to seek out a snack, she moved closer to me, and every nerve ending in my body stood on alert. I barely turned around before she had the knife’s blade up against my throat. Not driving it in, just reminding me she could.

“Nice trick with the pills,” Natalya whispered, breath perfumed with citrus and mint. “But you should know, before you try it again, I spent six months at a psychiatric black site in Saratov. I can sleep off an overdose like a house cat. But it doesn’t matter now, because by the time Arrow finds your pretty little Virelli body, bled out on the kitchen floor, I’ll be long gone.”

“Do you really think Arrow would let you live if you killed me?” I kept my voice steady, despite the knife cutting into my throat. “He may not love me, but I’m his prize—his property, remember?”