Page 94 of Arrow

His eyes traced the outline of the dress like a physical touch, lingering on the bruises that decorated my throat like a necklace. The possessiveness in his gaze made my skin prickle with awareness.

“You look like you’re attending a funeral,” I said.

“I am.” His voice was soft. “The death of Harlowe Virelli and the birth of Harlowe Romanov.”

I rolled my eyes to hide the shiver that ran down my spine. “Poetic.”

He stepped into the room, and the tailor quickly gathered her things, sensing the shift. She mumbled something about not messing up my makeup and scurried out, closing the door behind her.

Arrow moved toward me with that predatory grace that seemed to be embedded in his DNA. Black suit fitted perfectly to broad shoulders and a narrow waist. The only splash of color was a crimson tie that matched my dress exactly.

“Planning ahead?” I nodded at it.

“Always.” He circled me slowly, taking in every detail. When he reached my back, his fingers brushed lightly over the exposed skin of my spine. “The press will be there tonight—everyone who matters in this city.”

“And I’m supposed to smile and pretend I’m madly in love with you?”

He stopped in front of me, eyes meeting mine in the mirror. “You’ll stand by my side and let them see what they’ve been whispering about for weeks. The last Virelli, claimed by a Romanov.” His thumb traced the edge of my jaw, lingering at the corner of my mouth. “Tonight is about power. About showing the world that the old rules still apply.”

I wanted to slap his hand away, but something in me froze at his touch. Something treacherous that responded to the way his fingers traced my skin like it was already his property. I hated that part of myself more than I hated him.

“I have no desire to be a prop in whatever fucked-up Romanov power play this is,” I said, though my voice lacked conviction.

His eyes darkened. “No, moya prekrasnaya gadyuka,⁠* you’re much more than that. You’re the prize.” He stepped closer, body heat radiating against my bare back. “The one thing every powerful man in this city knows I have that they don’t.”

“A hostage, you mean.”

Arrow laughed, a low sound that vibrated through me. “A queen.” His hand moved to my throat, fingertips brushing over the marks Natalya’s knife had left. “Tonight, we show them that the future of this city belongs to us.”

“There is no ‘us,’” I insisted, but the words sounded hollow even to my own ears.

He turned me to face him, hands firm on my shoulders. “There will be. After tonight, after the wedding, there will only be us.” His thumb traced the edge of my collarbone. “The last Romanov and the last Virelli. The beginning of a new dynasty.”

I stepped back, needing distance from his touch, from the way it made my skin tingle with anticipation rather than revulsion. “I’m not going to help you play king.”

“You already are.”

He was right; I was already playing his game by standing here in this bloodred dress, allowing myself to be paraded in front of Manhattan’s elite.

“Am I allowed to eat at this function, or is it only for show?” I asked.

The dress cut so sharply at my ribs it felt like a corset. I could barely breathe, let alone plot mischief.

Arrow’s mouth curved into that irresistible smile. “Eat, drink, humiliate me if you want. Just remember which name you’re doing it under.”

He straightened the edge of the collar, his knuckles grazing the almost-healed bite on my jaw with proprietary intent, then stepped away. “We’re leaving in five.”

In the mirror, I saw what they’d always wanted—a weapon dressed in Romanov red, willing and on display.

The ride to the event was a production—an armored SUV led by more armored vehicles and, surprise, more armored vehicles bringing up the rear. Ivan navigated each intersection like a sweep team clearing rooms, while Arrow sat with his thighs spread, watching me.

I watched the night slide past in a whorl of neon and sleet. Every block we passed belonged to families now either dead, exiled, or plotting their return. I used to imagine the Romanov-Virelli feud as a kind of ancient, generational chess game, but in Arrow’s presence, it was clear.

It was a knife fight, and most of the knives were already inside the survivors.

I’d expected discomfort, a reckoning of nerves, but as the convoy lurched toward its destination, I found myself weirdly calm.

Maybe it was trauma’s aftershock, or maybe it was just knowing that tonight, for the first time, there’d be too many witnesses for anyone to put a bullet in my skull without the city watching.