Page 95 of Arrow

Arrow offered a flask. “For your nerves.”

I drank the vodka, savoring the burn. “You don’t think I’ll embarrass you?”

He grinned, perfectly straight white teeth stark in the light. “Turn around.”

I hesitated, then did, arching my back slowly so the dress sang against my skin.

“Hold your hair up.”

His fingers traced the arch of my spine, skating over the open back of the dress, pausing at my neck, before removing the collar. In its place, he fastened a gold chain around my throat. A single charm hung heavy on my chest—a bloodred A.

“You understand what this is.”

I looked at it in the dark window, refracted in a chain of infinity, and felt my pulse hammer hard against the links. “Subtle.”

Arrow’s fingers lingered one more moment, thumb brushing gently over the sharp edge of my jaw. “Better than a leash.”

Releasing my hair, he fixed his gaze on the window.

The SUV pulled up in front of the Estate Hotel, which had been closed for a “private event” since dusk. Paparazzi and onlookers crowded behind velvet ropes held taut by Arrow’s men, their faces mobbing the perimeter.

The Estate was a glossy monstrosity hydrated nightly with billionaire tears, and the phalanx of security outside funneled them into the entryway.

Paparazzi milled at the ropes, eyes like sharks’ teeth, cameras bristling for the first rumor of blood in the water. Arrow stepped out, adjusted his cufflinks, and held his hand out for me as if we’d been choreographing this moment for decades. I took it, stepping down in my skintight dress, heels plunging into the frosted curb.

His grip was tight on my hand—not just for show. Bodyguards occupied every square of concrete, and I realized with icy, foreign clarity that Arrow and I were the only two people who’d be allowed to leave alive if shit went sour.

Inside, the air was thick with perfume and power. Every surface mirrored, every gesture designed for capture. Every face a study in predation dressed up as etiquette.

Arrow’s grip on my hand was firm and possessive as he led me through the lobby. I caught more than one camera flash, felt the stab of thirty rival gazes slicing down the line of my dress, cataloguing every weakness, and every bruise.

The ballroom was a fishbowl of political heavies and old-family scions, the kind of blue-bloods who were always one bankruptcy away from a headline. I recognized half the faces, either from bloodlines or police blotters.

As I crossed the threshold, the whole room turned, first in curiosity and then in awe. He’d made no secret that I was the prize for tonight—a rare bird, plumage fresh and dripping.

I let them stare, refusing to drop my gaze or shrink behind Arrow’s largesse. I wanted to burn every eye out of every head that looked at my brand, my body, as if it were a painting with an auction-house estimate already tacked to the frame.

Arrow cut through the mob straight to a raised dais at the center of the room where a vintage grand piano waited for a pianist who would never arrive. On cue, a spotlight clicked on, splashing us both in the wash of white and gold. I braced myself as he drew me close enough for a kiss, but he only pecked my cheek, letting the city’s Peeping Toms document the proprietary smear of his lips against my skin.

I willed myself not to flinch at the flashbulbs. I wanted them to see how well I could play my role, not as Arrow Romanov’s little bride, not as the scapegoat daughter, but as the wolf they never saw coming. I stood at his side, chin up, sapphire eyes unmoving even when the governor and three state senators turned to assess the spectacle. I felt their pulses tighten, and fancied I could spit and hit a dozen men who’d once called for my father’s head.

For the first half hour, the party was pure theater. Servers in white gloves glided by with magnums of champagne—real, French, pre-sanctioned stock. I sipped at my flute, and let Arrow do the rounds, while I watched the city’s elite catalog my vulnerabilities.

Everyone pretended not to see the necklace, but I could feel their eyes hovering over the A at my throat. I let it hang there boldly, and matched every suspicious glance with my own.

The chief of police’s daughter sat in a cluster to the right—lips overly plump with filler, laugh trailing one beat behind the conversation. When she caught sight of me, she rolled her eyes, then looked away.

Arrow moved through the crowd with royal assurance, never breaking contact with me for more than a few seconds. Under the practiced charm, I caught the tension in the flex of his jaw, in the way his left hand always hovered a finger’s length from my waist, like he had to confirm every minute I was still beside him.

He shook the hands of men who’d signed the death warrants for half the room, kissed the cheeks of women who knew exactly how to ruin a name in three moves. I parried the questions—Are you so happy, Harlowe? Your father must be so proud, darling—by downing my next three pours of Laurent-Perrier and flashing a smile as sharp and void as shellac.

Even yet, there’d be the subtle comments.

“Wow, a Virelli, collared by a Romanov—didn’t see that coming,” someone murmured close enough for me to hear.

I swallowed hard and found Arrow’s eyes on me, watchful. His hand slid to my lower back as he leaned in close.

“Smile, malen’kaya gadyuka,”⁠* he whispered against my ear. “Let them see how well you wear my brand.”