Chapter 3 Confession 3 #2
It had been almost four months since I’d last seen him.
He’d only just returned from one of Viktor’s Buyers, and whatever scraps of him had still looked human when I was fourteen and he was sixteen were long gone.
He was bigger, harder, the bulk of his shoulders straining against skin crawling with dark florals, snakes, barbed wire, motifs of guns, some random initials, and what looked to be a fresher set of ink near his right peck of a sparrow.
His hair, once long enough to fall into his eyes, had been shorn close, severe, but it was his eyes that made my stomach twist. They’d always been dark, but now they were bottomless, black pits, as if every time he’d been sold, another layer of him had been carved out and discarded.
His gaze narrowed on my switchblade before he jerked his eyes back to mine.
God, the look he gave me—I almost walked away.
It completely stopped my heart, my throat cinching tight.
I expected him to be annoyed, maybe angry, but I never expected grief.
Pure fucking sorrow and defeat. He knew exactly what it meant that I was choosing to step into that courtyard.
Thorne was there, too. Shirtless. Blade in his hand. He had a black eye blooming as he glanced over, curious over Rafe’s distraction, and I swallowed when his face contorted. There were so many emotions that passed over Thorne in that one moment, but fear was the one that stuck.
There were other boys there, all of them practicing basic combat until they saw me—not just a girl but a Doll.
Besides Leah, Thorne and the few guys on the thieving crew, no one had really seen me in anything other than pristine dresses and a painted face.
There wasn’t a ton of overlap between those who worked the theft routes for Viktor and those who were sold in the courtyard.
A few did a double-take, their brows pulling together as they tried to make sense of me being me.
I forced myself to stand a little taller. Then, ignoring everyone else, I strode to Rafe. The other boys had stopped moving, blades and practice pistols lowering. Even Kane had gone still, his grin thinning as his gaze darted between Rafe and me.
I stopped just inside the circle of space that seemed to belong to him, close enough to see the sweat slicking his chest.
For a long moment, nothing happened. The heat pressed down, the courtyard humming with silence.
I’d never been that close to Rafe. He wasn’t exactly how I thought he was.
There were…vulnerabilities in his armor that surprised me, my pulse racing as I realized in the darkness of his eyes were the tiniest flecks of gold.
They were incredibly faint, but they were there, especially when the sunlight slanted just right.
Maybe that little bit of light is what gave me the courage, because I finally spoke.
“I want to be one of you,” I told him, pride filling my chest at the steadiness of my words. “I can steal,” I said, my jaw hardening, “and all of you already know I can fuck.”
You’d think the younger boys would snicker but they didn’t. No one ever laughed about that in Viktor’s house.
“So let me fight,” I said, and I let my eyes find Thorne’s again, hoping he sensed my apology.
I thought I came to that courtyard purely just for him, but standing there, finally, not as just a Doll but as a woman trying to claim a little more power in that life—I wanted it.
Badly. It was like I’d seen those tiny flecks of brightness in Rafe Creed’s eyes and believed that maybe I could survive the worst of the worst, too.
I took it like a fucking challenge. That’s how messed up my head was. How messed up we all were.
Rafe didn’t answer me, not with words. He simply turned away, grabbed a practice knife from a shelf, and returned. With a dark scowl and a firm grip, he ripped my switchblade from my palm and pressed the little wooden one in its place. It was all the permission I needed.
I nodded firmly and gripped my dummy weapon.
Rafe stared at me for another long moment.
It was impossible to know what the man was thinking.
He was only twenty, but if I thought he looked older at sixteen, I never could’ve comprehended the man he became.
It left me speechless as I slowly backed away from him, waiting to be challenged.
I knew my place. I had zero fighting skills.
As much as I wanted to stay in the ring with Thorne, I couldn’t without risking serious injury to both of us.
I’d have to work my way to a place by his side, and I’d have to do it fast.
Rafe finally shifted, his head jerking toward one of the boys at the edge of the yard.
“Matthew,” Kane called out for him, amusement in his voice. “Show the Doll how it’s done.”
A boy stepped forward, wiry and pale, his arms all elbows and bone, but there was a quickness to him. His fists were taped, knuckles raw, and I realized with a jolt that he wasn’t new to the courtyard.
My grip tightened around the wooden knife.
The circle of boys widened, and suddenly I was at the center of their world. Thorne’s voice cut in, hoarse, “Arden—don’t.”
But there was no changing my fate. I knew it, and fuck me, Rafe Creed knew it, too. All that grief he showed me was gone. My eyes kept finding his, my heart pounding into my throat at the cold, detached expression he forced. Almost imperceptibly, he dipped his chin, and Kane yelled, "Begin!"
Matthew came at me fast, swinging low. I stumbled back, nearly losing my balance as the dummy blade slipped in my sweaty palm.
The courtyard exploded with jeers and shouts, the sound bouncing off the stone.
I barely had time to think before Matthew lunged again, catching my shoulder with a hard shove that nearly sent me sprawling.
I snarled—actually snarled—and brought the blade up awkwardly, catching his arm with the wooden edge. It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t skilled. But it was a hit. Had it been a real blade, Matthew would need serious stitches.
The boys went quiet for a heartbeat, their surprise sharper than any cheer.
Matthew scowled and came at me again, faster, the weight of him slamming into my ribs.
The air punched out of my lungs, and we went down hard.
Stone scraped my back through the thin cotton of my tank as my fake knife clattered out of reach, spinning useless across the stone.
For a split second, panic flashed white-hot—I was done, I’d already lost.
But survival had never been clean.
His hand pinned my shoulder, grinding bone against stone, and his teeth bared between a grin and a snarl.
That look—that assumption that I’d fold—lit something savage in me.
My free hand shot up, nails raking across his cheek.
I felt the skin tear under my fingers, and his shout filled the courtyard.
The sound gave me an opening. I twisted under him, shoving with everything I had, and drove my knee upward as hard as I could. The impact landed square in his groin. His whole body convulsed, a raw, strangled noise ripping out of him as he doubled over.
The courtyard erupted, boys shouting and jeering, but the noise blurred into a single roar in my head.
My body was already moving before my mind caught up.
I shoved him onto his back and straddled him, fists swinging wild.
The first blow landed against his jaw with a crack that sent pain shooting up my arm.
The second hit split the skin on my knuckles, slicking them red, but I didn’t stop.
My fists rained down—temple, cheek, chest—each strike messier, harder, desperate.
Matthew fought back. His hand caught in my hair, yanking hard enough to make tears spring to my eyes.
My scalp screamed. I answered without thinking, slamming my forehead into his nose.
The crunch reverberated through my skull.
Warmth splashed my face—his blood, not mine—as his hands shot away from me.
He howled, thrashing, but I stayed on top, panting, teeth clenched, every inch of me shaking with rage I hadn’t known I was capable of.
I kept hitting him. Once. Twice. A third time. Each blow landed heavier, duller, until his arms went slack and his breath came ragged. His face was a mask of blood, his nose bent grotesquely, his mouth bubbling.
The courtyard had gone quiet. Just the sound of Matthew choking on his own spit and me gasping for air, my fists hovering in the space above his ruined face.
My chest heaved. My palms throbbed. My whole body trembled with the realization that I’d done that. I’d hurt him. Not by accident, not in self-defense, but because I chose to.
Slowly, I pushed back off him, stumbling to my feet. My vision tunneled for a moment, black edging in before the world steadied. Matthew curled onto his side, spitting blood into the dirt, too broken to get up.
I stood there swaying, blood on my hands, my knuckles split open and stinging. My heart slammed against my ribs like it was trying to escape.
No one spoke. Even Thorne’s face was pale, unreadable.
But Rafe—like a fucking verdict, he pointed at another boy. Then another. And another.
I fought and fought until I couldn’t fight anymore. I was bloody. I was limp. Only then did they stop coming. Only then did Rafe crouch down beside me where I laid on the stone, my chest heaving and blood dribbling from my mouth.
Shock ran through me when he pressed his thumb to the corner of my lips, dragging the heat of his skin upward.
The touch was careful, deliberate, almost tender in a way that made my stomach twist. His thumb smeared through the blood at the corner of my mouth.
For a breath, the courtyard vanished—there was only his skin against mine and the sharp awareness that Rafe Creed had touched me.
He seemed disoriented, too, like the touch had unsettled him more than it had me.
Confused wasn’t a word I’d ever thought could belong to Rafe, but it was there, flickering across his face before he pulled his hand back too quickly, as if burned.
His scowl deepened, but there was a softness in his gaze.
I didn't know how to make sense of any of it; that day had felt like a day of genuine impossibilities.
Being able to take out Matthew and still be alive? It shouldn't have been able to happen.
Kane was there next, peering over Rafe’s shoulder with a crooked smile. It faltered when he got a good enough look at me. “Shit. Rafe, you dick, why are you just staring at the girl? She needs help.”
Thorne dropped to his knees by my head. He yanked me up, propping me against him with a dark expression. “Fuck.” He touched the side of my face gingerly, and I winced. "It's going to be okay, little flame."
“No. It's not. Viktor's going to kill us,” Kane said and a true flash of fear crossed his face. I’d never seen Kane be scared of anything, and seeing it in that moment drove tears to my eyes—no matter how much I wanted to not cry.
I chose to go to the courtyard. I fought.
I was proud of myself for how far I made it.
“Rafe,” Kane said more seriously. “He’s going to kill us when he sees her.”
Rafe touched the corner of my mouth again.
The sting flared, sharp enough to make me wince, but his thumb didn’t move away.
His touch lingered, heavy, tracing just enough pressure to remind me how close he was.
The courtyard felt too quiet, the air thick with tension, until the sound of Thorne clearing his throat cut through.
Rafe pulled back, slow and reluctant, his scowl replacing his brief, worried look with ease.
Kane—I’ve never really been sure how he was able to understand Rafe but he did. “Get her to her room. Call a discreet maid to take care of her,” Kane ordered his brother. “Now, Thorne.”
“My training isn’t done,” Thorne gritted out, and I reached a hand to his wrist, squeezing it. I wasn’t mad. I agreed. Thorne couldn’t leave that courtyard. He needed Viktor to see him fighting that day, the next, every day leading up to his brother’s departure.
So did I. If I was going to make myself valuable enough to get Leah and I out of that hellhole, I had to keep fighting.
Groaning, hissing, making sounds I honestly thought belonged only in hell, I shifted upward.
Thorne tried to stop me. Kane braced his hands on his head and paced away, muttering curses. Rafe, well, stared. The other boys—the ones I hadn’t knocked out yet—waited.
I got up. To this fucking day, I’ve no idea how.
But I stood on my own, lifted my fists on my own, and somehow I beat the shit out of two more boys.
I remember looking over at Thorne through swollen lids, and I remember seeing the fear he had for me leak away.
Thorne, in that moment, realized what I think Rafe had already known.
I wasn’t becoming a Creed. I already was one. Viktor had just called me Doll instead.
That night, at nine p.m., Viktor came to my bedroom with two guns. One to carve four cruel letters into my arm. The other to kill.
He kissed my forehead. “I’ve been waiting so long for this,” he murmured.
I was wrecked from the courtyard—muscles shaking, head pounding—but it didn’t matter. It never mattered. Viktor Shaw could make me feel small and breakable anywhere, anytime, and he knew it.
“A billion,” he whispered against my temple. “They want you for a billion.”
My throat felt torn raw, but the question still scraped out, “How long?”
His fingers slipped to the buttons of my jeans. “A year,” he said. Then his mouth curved, cruel and certain. “Five hundred million extra for me to send Creed with you. It means cutting other deals, but you’re too lucrative to keep locked in this house.”
He pressed his palm flat against my stomach, guiding me back onto the bed as if he had all the time in the world. “You’ll need to practice more than your fight for that price, Doll.” His voice dropped to a satisfied hiss. “Open for me.”