Page 91 of Arrow

I flinched when Arrow inspected my neck and saw the cut Natalya had left me with. His hands were unhurried, pressing the pad of his thumb to the shallow groove her knife had carved.

Funny, how quick desperation becomes conviction when you lean hard enough into it. He wrapped his palm over my throat, not to choke but to measure, and in that touch, I felt an uneasy intimacy that curled inside me like a parasite.

“Breathe,” he said.

I tried, my chest heaving against his arm. His thumb traced the edge of the cut, not pressing hard enough to hurt, just enough to remind me it was there.

“She could have killed you.” His voice was strained.

“But you got to her first,” I replied, my words hoarse. “Is that your thing? Making sure you’re the only one who gets to hurt me?”

Arrow’s eyes darkened. “I didn’t save you so I could hurt you.”

“Then why did you?” I asked, suddenly desperate to understand.

His hand moved from my throat to my face, his fingers leaving trails in Natalya’s blood. “Because she wasn’t supposed to be here. My father sent her to test us both.”

“Test us? What kind of test involves murder?”

“The only kind my father knows.” Arrow’s face was a mask of control, but something flickered beneath the surface. “He wanted to see if I’d choose you over family.”

The implication hit me like a fist to the gut. “And you did.”

“I did.”

We stood there, the kitchen gleaming as if nothing had happened.

Arrow Romanov had killed his cousin to protect me, and the weight of that fact pressed against my chest while I stood, motionless.

Tears stuck to my lashes—pain, relief, rage tangled too tight to separate. Blood threaded my lip, but the trauma had scrubbed the rest of me clean, left me feeling new and strange in my own skin.

Any other man would have kissed me, would have whispered something reassuring. “You’re safe now,” or “I’ve got you.”

Would have offered the comfort of certainty.

Arrow only leaned closer, nose grazing my jaw, and whispered, “You can sleep now. No one else will try again.”

He released my throat, and the print of his fingers still pressed into me as I stumbled upstairs, my legs not quite working. My hands were white-knuckled from holding the water bottle so tight I’d split the label. When I got to my room, I slammed the door, slid down its calm face, and, for the first time in years, sobbed like something in me was worth releasing.

I slept hard enough that the early morning sunlight already peeked through the curtains when I woke, the house silent around me. I showered, then washed my face twice, then three times, before scrubbing under my nails with a brush until the meat tore and bled again.

The house felt hollow as I padded through it—a different hollow than before. No cameras tracked my movement. No gaze prickled at the back of my neck.

I’d expected to find Arrow at the table with a new plan or a leash. But the kitchen was empty, the fridge restocked.

At the site of last night’s violence, I traced where Natalya’s body had collapsed. No stain remained. Not even a ghost of one. The only evidence was the raw guilt that had settled in my chest.

Eating felt like a choice, so I made a show of it, devouring cold eggs and crusted bread and sucking down two glasses of orange juice. I licked my fingers clean and watched the sun choreograph shadows up and down the length of the kitchen island. For an hour, I existed, staring into nothing, not waiting for anything to break.

Arrow found me like that, an hour past noon, a scabbed cut on my neck, and a dark purple bruise on my cheek. He wore a blue shirt, collar open and sleeves rolled, his hair slicked back in a controlled mess. His gray eyes had the glassy shine of someone who’d been awake for days.

We surveyed each other in silence for a full ten seconds. He set down his phone and splayed his hands on the counter, knuckles white. I expected an order, a demand, or even a threat. But he just stood there, letting the tension fan out between us until the world narrowed to only us.

“You’re shaking.”

“You’re a killer,” I countered.

He sighed, moving to the fridge, opened it, pulled out a bottle of water, cracked it open, and set it in front of me.