AN I have so many feelings about this and I need to talk about all of them, but I do not have the space. HERE ARE THE HIGHLIGHTS:

1. I have been huddled over this story for literally a year and I am Very Excited about it. 2. This is less of a romance and more a study on power dynamics between two strong personalities, so there will be some dabbling in unhealthy relationships, but we will stay in unhealthy territory for as little time as possible. 3. Oliver Queen is my sun, my moon, and my tired, pissed off stars.

Thanks again to ThatGypsyWriter and Red Bess Rackham for betaing!

Felicity glanced around the honeymoon suite, unable to quell the jitters in her stomach.

Married. She had been married today.

She looked at the wedding dress she was still wearing. It was beautiful, of course. The best money could buy; a delicate cream with a lace covered bodice, beads stitched into the skirt to look like birds of paradise taking flight. Lace made up the sleeves and formed a large cut out on her back. Felicity had shivered every time Oliver settled his hand there.

She should be happy, that was what people were supposed to feel on their wedding day. But all she felt was patient, waiting for the next person to meet, the next photo line to pose for, the next arrangement to be made and for her to be guided there.

"Are you alright?" Oliver asked, coming out from the bathroom. Felicity turned, forcing out a small smile and nod. His words sounded like glass; see-through and a little cold to the touch.

"Just taking it in."

"If you're tired, we don't have to go to dinner."

"No, it's fine. I guess I'm still seeing spots from the cameras."

Everyone with a flash bulb had turned out to see Oliver and Felicity Queen's wedding (or, at least, as much as they could behind the thick wall of security). The hype surrounding it almost made it seem like the world hadn't been aware of the wedding for the last six months.

Oliver's phone went off and he quietly excused himself to the balcony. Felicity glanced down at herself again—the vision in white, the media's new plaything with a new name. The plaything that was now alone. She swallowed and looked back up.

The suite was tasteful; no flower petals strewn everywhere, no hearts to be seen. Just a big, inviting space, full of cream fabric and hard woods. The bed, however, was definitely the most prominent feature of the room.

Felicity glanced toward the balcony door, making sure Oliver was out of sight. This was allegedly her day. She could do something for herself, just this once.

Without taking a second to think about hidden paparazzi, the ever-present rules of decorum, or her wonderfully shaped and very delicate wedding dress, Felicity ran to the bed and vaulted up. She jumped on the exquisite bedding, shoes flying off, enormous skirts pooling up in the air around her. She broke into helpless giggles, then finally flopped onto her back.

She had dreamed of doing this on her wedding day for years, had found solace in it when the drudgery of being engaged grew to be too much. Only, she had always envisioned her husband to be jumping on the bed beside her.

But then, she had never really fooled herself into thinking Oliver Queen was the bed jumping type. She hadn't even considered doing this since her mother had told her of the marriage merger between Queen Consolidated and Smoak Solutions.

Oliver stepped back into the room, eyes fastening on her and the newly trampled bed. She looked at him in slightly breathless surprise, not sure what he would say. He was quiet for a moment, though, once again absorbing every detail in front of him.

"Did you just jump on the bed?"

"Yes." She propped herself up on one elbow, thankful her voice was more defiant than sheepish. He gave a slight huff of amusement, something between a laugh and a sigh. It made her feel awkward, somehow, like he was humoring her by not saying anything else. She hadn't cared before, but now she felt self-conscious. Jumping on the bed was not something the new member of the Queen family was supposed to do.

"Dinner's at eight," he told her, stowing his phone into his tuxedo.

"Alright, I'll be changed by then," Felicity promised. She sat up fully and watched him cross back to the bathroom. She had a feeling that was what this marriage would be like. Watching from the other side of the room.

Dinner was enjoyable. Ignoring the occasional stolen picture by the people around them, Felicity had a nice time. The food was lovely, the music wonderful, and Oliver made interesting conversation. It was just like every other meal they had shared as fiancés. Oliver had mastered idle pleasantries, but the coolness stayed in his eyes and he had a way of looking at Felicity that made her feel like he was analyzing every little thing she did.

The only thing that had really changed was that now he had a ring on his finger, too.

Eventually, they made their way back to their suite. Felicity tried to smother the nerves in her stomach, but she couldn't. This was probably it. This was probably when she and Oliver had sex and sealed the deal.

Oliver held the door open for her, so she was the first one to see the candles.

"Oh, wow," she said, turning slightly to look at them all. They were all a slightly darker cream than the rest of the room, but the candles varied in size from tea lights to large, upright ones. They edged the room, though small islands of light sat on the table, the coffee table, and the dresser.

"They're probably complimentary," Oliver reasoned. He took it all in stride, removing his shoes when he spoke. "Do you want to get rid of them?"

"They're…a little cliché. Especially for us."

It was only when Oliver gave her a look that Felicity realized that maybe she wasn't supposed to point out the contrived nature of their relationship. But then he shrugged and moved past her, sliding out of his suit jacket.

"You're right."

"They can stay, though," she added. "I think they're pretty."

Oliver nodded, but didn't look back at her. Felicity decided she definitely wanted to keep the candles. Things seemed a little less cold in their friendly glow.

Felicity sucked in a breath and pulled off her heels. She took off her jewelry, exceptionally aware of the ring still on her finger. To stall in removing her beautiful and very not sex-optimal dress, she moved into the bathroom to work on the pins in her hair.

"Felicity?"

"Hm?"

"Come here, please."

She paused, then left the bathroom. "Yes?"

"I have something to tell you."

She stood still, watching him. He was sitting on the foot of the bed, but stood up and gestured her closer. Felicity edged nearer, suddenly nervous. His expression had moved from serious to somber.

"Now that we are married, I feel that you should know."

"Know…what?" she asked, narrowing her eyes slightly. Her mind leaped to a number of embarrassing or mortifying things in the moment of silence, each one making her very much not excited.

"The Queen family is part of the Bratva. I am part of the Bratva."

"Wait—what? The Bratva? Isn't that—"

"The Russian mob, yes."

"What? No. What? No, no, that can't—" Felicity broke herself off, shaking her head. She turned her head away but kept her eyes on him, trying to force out a smile. It didn't come.

This had to be a joke. But this was a horrible punchline, and Oliver was not the joking type. Still, the Russian mob? There was no way he could be a part of that, his mother would know, his sister—Thea had problems, but they weren't mobster problems.

"No," she said, shaking her head again. "No, I don't believe you. There's no way you could…no."

His expression didn't change. Oliver kept his eyes on her as he slowly undid his shirt buttons. Felicity watched his hands as she struggled to breathe, as she struggled to figure out why he would tell her such an outrageous lie. He pulled open his shirt. Felicity couldn't help but gasp.

Scars. His whole chest was covered in scars. Big, vicious things, some stretching all across his torso. She put a hand to her mouth, horrified.

"Oliver, what happened to you?" she whispered.

"Do you know what this tattoo means?"

"What? No, I—what about those scars? How did you get something like that, I mean—how did you live through that?"

"Felicity," he said, voice cutting through her shock. She stared at him, not understanding his perverse calm. He was being economical about everything and she hated it. "This tattoo shows that I am a part of the Bratva. The scars are from a mob interrogation."

"Oh my gosh," she breathed, "oh my gosh. You—you're part of the mob? You, Oliver Queen—and—what?" Felicity cupped her hands over her mouth, trying to slow her breathing, trying to think.

Here she was learning that her new husband, charming, clever, suave Oliver Queen was a mobster. And he was so, so calm, horribly calm, disgustingly calm, while she was on the verge of becoming a shrieking mess. She stole a look at him, trying to make herself think beyond the sick wrench in her gut.

She was finding out that her husband was part of the mob and it was lit by soft candlelight.

Felicity suddenly felt lightheaded. She stumbled backward, sinking on the couch before she fainted and made a fool out of herself.

The mob? How had she not known? Who did know? Did her mother? No, absolutely not, Donna Smoak would never have let her daughter go into a den of monsters, not of this kind. Moira, did Moira know? Was she aware of the hell that was spread across her son's skin?

Oliver gave her a moment to process, buttoning up his shirt. When he had finished, he began to explain.

"Once we were married, you could not testify against me in court. I thought it best to tell you right away."

"Thanks," she scoffed through her fingers, eyes fixed on some point on the ground. Felicity looked back at him, mind still spinning. "How high up are you?"

"Very."

"Are you the big bad?"

"I do have to answer to some people, but not many."

"And who else knows? Does your family, do they know you're-you're Bratva?"

"My mother does."

Felicity gave another tight laugh and shook her head. Of course Moira knew. Now that Felicity was forcing her way through shock, she was hardly surprised. Felicity also did not miss the 'Thea does not' in Oliver's voice. She forced herself to her feet, trying to breathe normally. She grabbed for the armrest to make sure she stayed upright.

"And my mother, will she—no, no she won't find out. But Walter?"

"He's…aware."

"Diggle knows, of course. He's probably a part of it! Oh, no, no, no, no," she whispered to herself, feeling another wave of horror. She liked Diggle. Felicity might not have spoken to him much, but he had always seemed like a good man. That apparently put people in body bags.

Felicity was quiet a moment, marshalling herself.

"What are you expecting from me?" she asked, not looking at Oliver.

"What do you mean?"

"Am I—do I have to—I'm not a part of this, too, am I?"

"No," Oliver said firmly. "You will have no part in this."

"But I'm going to be surrounded by mobsters," she said, voice hitching up an octave. Felicity closed her eyes on her hysteria and continued. "But I married—"

"The mob, I know."

She was actually going to say 'a monster'.

Felicity needed some time after that. Oliver politely let her retreat to the bathroom, or at least, she imagined it was polite, because she basically sprinted away from him and he didn't say a thing. She stayed in the ridiculously ornate bathroom, staring at clean white tiles and gold accents as her breath hitched and her thoughts scrambled around the room.

She certainly never thought one of her first acts as Felicity Queen would be to have a panic attack.

When she could see straight, Felicity got to shaky but usable legs and looked at herself in the mirror. Red rimmed eyes, makeup ruined, hair a sight, and dress crinkled. Her lovely, cream designer dress, forever stained by the blood of ignorance murdered before her eyes.

Felicity took time to clean herself up. She was slow to take down her hair the rest of the way and wash her face. She removed her earrings, took out her contacts, stared herself in the eye, and dragged in a few long breaths.

She could do this. She could lay by his side for one night until it was morning and she was rested and they could sort all of this out.

Felicity put her head in her hands.

Yesterday, her mother's pep talk had been about just how much sexual prowess she was to show on their first night. Fussy and high maintenance and overwhelming as Donna may have been, Felicity dearly wished for some of her mother's advice on what to do with this.

Felicity stared at the ceiling for a long time before moving.

Married to the head of the Starling City mob. The morning after and it still didn't seem real. But it was now her reality.

Last night had been stilted following the big reveal, to say the least. After she left the bathroom, Oliver had looked her over. He saw the bathrobe, the scrubbed face, the evidence of an anxiety he fundamentally could not understand. He saw it and did not say a word.

Silence was the defining power in Oliver, now that he had no need to play nice for the cameras or his fiancée. That was good. If Felicity had to listen to anything other than her own breathing, she might have vomited. Or screamed. Or maybe both. She hadn't decided yet.

Oliver had gone into the bathroom shortly after she came out, giving Felicity the opportunity to change into her night shift in peace. She was in bed with the light off when Oliver came back out. He had stopped and surveyed her for a long moment, his gaze palpable even through the blankets. She closed her eyes when she heard him move around the room, blowing out the candles. She hadn't even had the energy to tense when he climbed in beside her and fell asleep.

Now she had no idea where he was. He wasn't in bed and she couldn't hear him in the room.

Felicity sat up and glanced around. In a couple of hours they would leave this place, off to some pristine, private beach in British Columbia. She had been excited for the misty beaches and beautiful cliffs when presented with the option. Now they seemed like a miserable, rainy jail cell where Oliver was her only visitor.

Not that he has any reason to hurt you. He wouldn't tell his secret to anyone he was about to kill. You're an asset, Felicity reasoned. She sounded like her mother.

She swung her legs off of the bed. Baby steps. She could get through this with baby steps. Felicity stood up and walked over to the bathrobe she had discarded the night before. It was soft and lovely. She had gone to soft and lovely in the face of finding out that her husband ran a crime organization. She had been trained to be collected and clever in the face of any situation, and it had all gone out the window. Perfect.

The sound of the sliding glass door made Felicity jump. Oliver entered from the balcony, phone yet again in hand. He had pulled on his pants, but was shirtless. She fought not to stare at his scars.

"Good morning," he said.

"Morning. That seems to be your new favorite spot," she said, nodding at the balcony.

"I didn't want to wake you. You looked like you needed the rest."

"Thank you," she said, forcing a smile.

They were quiet for a moment, then he said, "I took the liberty of ordering breakfast. It should be here soon."

Felicity nodded, staring at her feet. She smoothed her hair back from her face and straightened. Felicity edged nearer to Oliver and leaned against a wall.

"How long have you been awake?"

"Since seven."

Last time she had checked the clock, it have been nine.

"What have you been doing all that time?"

"Business, mostly. I promised Mom that I would stop once I left the city."

"Cramming in the last little bits you can?"

"Something like that."

A soft knock sounded on the door, making them both turn.

"Could you…?" Oliver asked, gesturing at the door.

Felicity glanced back at him, shirtless and scarred, then nodded. Soon enough, both Felicity and the food were settled in the middle of the room. Oliver watched her perch on the arm of the couch and pick at a bundle of grapes.

"So, I imagine you have more questions."

"Yes," she said, toying with a grape between her fingers. It felt strange in her hand, too perfect to be handled in such a heavy moment, but she needed something else to do. "I…I just want to get something straight."

Oliver inclined his head like he was giving permission for her to speak. Felicity swallowed, searching for the words.

"What do—Oliver…could you come here please? I can't do this from across the room."

Oliver Queen was not a man to be commanded, but he obediently came over and sat down. Felicity's eyes were back on the grape when she spoke.

"What are you expecting of me?"

"What do you mean?"

"Am I…a part of this? I've married you, but will I be expected to…will I have to—"

"Take part in the crime? Absolutely not. You will be isolated from anything pertaining to the Bratva."

Felicity gave him a long look. He couldn't promise that. He couldn't guarantee that she wouldn't be affected by any of this. Of course he couldn't, she knew enough to realize that some things would be out of his control. But she trusted the solemnity in his eyes. He had been honest this far.

"And as a wife?"

Oliver gave her another look, which Felicity returned with her own dose of iron. "I suppose that depends on what you were expecting."

"Out of us? Out of Starling's new darlings? I thought we'd be like our parents. Arranged matches, here out of duty. Eventually, we might even become friends, but always business partners. Always putting the best foot forward because we had to. In a few years, maybe two, we'd try to become pregnant. A few children, a few more trust funds, a few more heirs."

"And now?"

"I don't want to be our parents," she said, the words forming somewhere around her teeth. The first time she heard them was right along with Oliver. "Not now, things have changed. I'm not going to be a trophy wife that organized brunches and social events, not while my husband's off—"

Felicity chewed on the words. She saw how frosty Oliver's face had become. She needed to figure out where she stood before she started pushing buttons.

"I want my company," she said, clear and firm. She didn't back down from Oliver's near glacial look. "I know it's a part of Queen Consolidated, now, but I run it, I answer to no one, unless it interferes with the rest of your company. I do what I like, and you and your…job stays out of it."

"Fair."

"And—and that's it," she told him, breath coming a little quicker now. "Other than that, business partners, we are just two people living in the same place."

"So you'd like your own room when we return to Starling?"

"Yes," she said, blinking in surprise. She hadn't expected him to be so accommodating. Oliver got what he wanted, no matter what. Then again, that was when he actually cared enough to want something. He hadn't wanted her. He had wanted her company and her cooperation.

"Alright. I'll make the call before we leave."

Felicity ate the grape. She watched Oliver for a moment, working on a mug of tea and some eggs as he read something off of his phone, thoughts already on something else.

"Is the club your base of operations?"

"Hm?" He didn't take his eyes off his phone, but she knew he heard her.

"Verdant. Is that where you head up the Bratva?"

Oliver looked up, the edges of his mouth barely quirking. "There are multiple sites in the city…but yes, that is what you'd call headquarters."

"And everything else? The little businesses and buildings under your name?" Oliver raised an eyebrow at her, and she shrugged. "I do my research."

"Some are for work…but others are just as they seem."

"A playground for Thea," she surmised, moving on to a croissant. She froze when Oliver gave a single laugh.

"Yes. Some place she can go where I can keep an eye on her." His expression had turned mild, the first one since he had told her his secret last night. Felicity had a feeling that nothing else could soften him the way his family did. He would take steps to keep them safe, even if it meant buying half of the city.

A new thought came into her head, and it made her bite of croissant hard to swallow.

"Am I…in danger because of this?" she asked, forcing herself not to look at her ring (that didn't keep her eyes from flicking to Oliver's hand, though).

At this, he let out another hard laugh. "No. No one would dare try to hurt you."

"Not even, I don't know, rival mafias? Up 'n comings that want to weaken you? That sort of thing?"

"No. They know me to be very motivated by personal attacks."

Felicity kept his eye, even as the image of a very dark Oliver flashed in her head.

"But on the topic of your safety, it would be wise to have a—"

"I'm not having a bodyguard," she interrupted, holding up her hand. Oliver gave her a look and she straightened. "I'm not! Felicity Smoak never needed one before. What's it going to look like when she suddenly needs one after marrying Oliver Queen?"

"Well, it's a good thing we're not worrying about Felicity Smoak, then," he countered. "The chance of a personal attack is small, given my status. But the risk is still there. If you need protection—"

"I'm sure your home and my work are well protected," she said, waving a hand. "I'm not being shadowed by some testosterone-fueled meathead."

"Diggle is a 'meathead'."

"Diggle is one in a million, but also part of the mob!" she stage hissed, because she was still pissed that he had turned out to be a very dangerous criminal. He made dad jokes, for heaven's sake. "If it really makes you feel better, fine, select some grunts. But I'm not using one until I feel I need it."

"That could be after you're put in a pine box."

"Oliver, I'm not doing it. I refuse to be that kind of person. I run a company that produces smart, helpful, brilliant software. There is nothing about my life that necessitates personal security, and I'm certainly not going to allow yours to change it."

"I don't choose who wants to shoot you," he said.

A chill ran up Felicity's spine. He said it like he had dictated hits before. Oliver must have seen it in her eyes, because something closed off in his face, like he had shown too much. He pulled back from the amiable respect he'd had before. Now it was all utilitarian, cold, and hard. There was no room for anything but the next deal.

"Do what you can," Felicity said, "but I'm not having a bodyguard until I say."

"And if I ignore you? Assign you one, anyway?"

"Then I'll make things very difficult."

"How?" Oliver asked, hard amusement in his smile.

Felicity watched him for a long moment. "You're obviously not familiar with having a woman scream and accuse you of assault, are you?"

"Can't cry wolf all the time."

"No, but I can mace them."

"Mace is illegal. And you're not fast enough."

"Stalking is illegal, too, which is what they'd be doing. And I'm crafty."

"And if I opt out for a group of big hairy Russians to follow you around?" he asked, tilting his head and leaning in.

Felicity gave him a sweet smile (this was him teasing, right? He was just testing her?) and said, "Then, Mr. Queen, I'd make your life a personal hell."

"Tempting," he said. He actually sounded curious.