Chapter 11
? Arden ?
My knees hit hard metal, a van door slamming shut as hands gripped every part of me. One tangled in my hair, one fisted the back of my jacket, another forced my wrists behind me until the bones ground together.
Masks gleamed in the dim light—four of them, faceless gods in the dark.
The one binding my wrists wore a devil's mask, its paint torn in places like someone had clawed at their face.
Another crouched low in a gas mask and a black hoodie, the hood pulled up to hide any identifying features.
The others—I didn't get to see them before a hood was thrown over my head. I screamed, wrenching left and right.
“Hold her,” one said. His voice was smooth, deliberate. "Arden, please, calm down."
I thrashed, but they pinned me down effortlessly. My head slammed against the van wall, white stars sparking behind my eyes. “You fight pretty,” another murmured. The tip of his gloved finger trailed the line of my bicep, a mockery of affection.
“Don’t touch me!” My voice broke, raw and useless.
Someone laughed. “Damn. You said she'd be a fighter, but that kick's fucking lethal.”
“Shut her up and get her still,” the one closest to me ordered. "We can't make the incision with her squirming."
Incision? I screamed, louder.
A hand caught my head, yanking up the hood long enough to press a cloth into my mouth. Sweet, chemical fumes filled my throat before I could twist away. “Breathe, darling,” he said, almost tender. “We're not going to hurt you.”
I tried not to fall unconscious—God, I tried—but my lungs betrayed me. The drug slid through my veins, thick and numbing. My limbs grew heavy. The engine growled to life, drowning out my shallow breaths. Someone said, sounding further and further away, “Get me the numbing cream.”
The last thing I felt was a gloved hand smoothing my hair back from my neck before the darkness finally took me.
When consciousness returned, it came in fragments—heat first, then pain.
The air smelled like smoke and liquor. Firelight painted patterned, navy walls in slow, writhing licks of orange, every flicker carving deeper shadows into the room.
I tried to move, but rope bit into my wrists, my chest, my ankles.
The chair beneath me was high-backed and heavy, its wood cold against my spine.
The metallic click of a lighter broke the silence.
A man sat across from me, relaxed, a glass of brandy balanced in one hand and a lighter in the other.
He flicked it open and closed. Open. Closed.
The flame’s reflection danced in his eyes.
They were a deep amber with strikes of green.
The engraving of the lighter flashed with his movements—V.S.
My chest tightened. Viktor Shaw. My lighter.
He must’ve taken it from the penthouse while Creed had the bikes out.
I swallowed hard, the motion scraping against something sore. My neck ached like the skin had been tugged or cut. The pain radiated at the base of my skull, a tender burn that made my head throb.
Incision. The memory came back to me through the last remnants of whatever drug my kidnappers had soaked that cloth with, likely chloroform.
My pulse hammered against the ropes, the chair creaking as I strained against my restraints.
The man across from me noticed, straightening as he realized I was awake.
He wore a tailored black suit that looked poured over his frame.
The maroon shirt beneath was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a line of skin and the faint glint of a gold chain resting against his throat.
The color deepened the gold in his hair, every strand swept back in a way that looked effortlessly wealthy.
His jaw carried the faintest shadow of stubble, and every finger bore a ring.
He smelled of smoke and rain-soaked wood, the warmth of the fire tracing the hard planes of his chest beneath the shirt, the slow shift of muscle when he lifted his glass.
His gaze held, steady, unhurried. "Arden Creed," he said, his voice rumbling outward and edged with a hint of amusement. "Nice of you to finally rejoin the land of the living, darling."
My eyes narrowed. Darling. One of the men in the van had called me that. I was sure of it. "What did you do to me?" I asked, trying to sound braver than I felt.
His eyes glimmered as he nodded to the coffee table between us. There was a small black square sitting on a cloth. It was bloody, and I put two and two together quickly. I jerked my gaze back to his.
"You removed the device Halden put in my neck? Why?" Then with a hard, uneven breath. “You’re the Buyer, aren’t you?”
A smile touched his mouth. “Buyer,” he said softly, like he was testing the word out for the first time. “I think I’d prefer Opportunist.”
He juggled the lighter and his glass for a moment, lifting his hips and pulling a phone from his pocket.
He set it face up on the table. On its screen was a map.
City blocks rendered in 3D. Overlaid on the map were four red dots.
They zipped along, the rest of Creed still riding their bikes, before the dots all slam to a stop.
Fuck, they were just then realizing I wasn't the woman on that bike.
“You’re tracking us,” I bit out. "We figured the bikes were being watched."
“I’d be a fool not to. You were all very expensive,” he said.
He glanced down at his phone again. “And there they go.” He angled the screen for me.
The dots that belonged to Thorne, Kane, and Rafe stirred again, heading back toward the city.
“All of Creed out of its cage and in the streets. How long you think before Halden activates those devices of yours?” he asked, his eyes landing on my neck where the poison had been embedded.
“I’m a betting man, and I think Halden spent a little too much time breaking you all in to poison his own efforts.
Something tells me he’ll do whatever it takes to get Creed back under his thumb. ”
“That’s why you put us in that penthouse and gave us the bikes?” I asked. “You were just waiting for us to take the chance to run and break our contract.” And we'd played directly into his fucking hand.
He made a small, pleased sound. “You’re quick. That’s useful.”
“What do you want?” I asked. "Why single me out? You bought all four of us."
“I want your specialty.” He nodded toward my lighter, once again flicking the flame on and off.
“I knew to get what I want that you would need be…satisfied. In exchange for your services, I’ll provide all of Creed with more money than you can imagine.
Your boys could go anywhere in the world, but you—you'll stay with me.”
I eyed him. He was younger than Halden and Viktor. He didn’t have the same sinister aura they both did, but sometimes, the men who raped me didn’t either. It was impossible to tell if a hell with this Buyer was more merciful than Halden’s compound.
I squeezed my eyes shut, my shoulders heaving with indecision. “You’ll let them go if I agree to help you,” I demanded, nodding to the rest of Creed on his map. "I don't want you tracking them anymore."
“I’m afraid that’s impossible. I’ll have less bargaining power with Halden if I can't dangle all of Creed over his head. Purely strategic. Don't worry. I'll keep my word and leave them alone. Besides, I’d think you’d want them far away from that compound.” He leaned his elbows onto the tabletop and set his drink down, his gaze turning serious.
“I will ensure they are unbothered,” he said.
“I’ve already created accounts for all of you.
Say yes, and I’ll wire money through. Shortly after, I'll deploy my team to have their devices removed, hand them their new IDs, debit cards, and sufficient travel packages to leave the city.”
I pressed, knowing better. “This feels like a trap.”
“If you say yes,” he said, the hair lifting on the back of my neck.
“I’ll do as you ask. Anything you want—besides freedom from your contract—is yours.
But,” he continued, setting my lighter on the table beside his phone, “we’re going to need to upgrade this little lighter of yours. Maybe something with a bit more boom.”
My jaw flexed. “Explosives?”
He nodded once, taking a longer drink, the green of his eyes brightening within the amber.
It made him impossibly magnetic, and suddenly, the wealth surrounding us didn't surprise me in the slightest. This man, I knew, had spent his life talking his way to this point.
He was too smooth and cautious to be from old money. He was a salesman, a conman.
I swallowed. “Who’s the target?”
He tapped his ring against the side of his cup, running his other hand through the stubble along his jaw.
“You’re well-acquainted, actually,” he said, his tone tinted with the kind of pride a man only shows when he knows he has the winning cards.
“Halden, first, of course. Can’t have him interfering with future missions.
Plus, he has something of mine I’d like back.
” The slightest hint of rage flickered across his expression, but he smoothed it with ease.
“Then, I was thinking Viktor Shaw could be paid a visit.”
I straightened. “You want to kill Halden and Viktor?”
He leveled his gaze with mine and nodded once, clipped, knowing he had me.
Suddenly I didn’t care if that hell was worse. “Fine. When the rest of Creed is free, I’m yours.”
He smiled brightly and gestured to the woman who'd quietly stepped into the room with a bottle of brandy.
She looked out of breath, her short, black hair scraping against her chin as she brought the bottle to her lips.
I recognized what she was wearing—my outfit—and it clicked.
She was the one who'd impersonated me, meaning the guys were back in the city.
“Monty,” the Buyer said. "Sharing is caring. Make us a drink, won't you? We're celebrating." Then he plucked something out of his suit pocket, sliding it across the table and letting it glimmer under the flickering firelight.
A ring. A diamond ring.
“My girl said yes,” he announced, and the woman, Monty, grinned slightly, pouring brandy into two crystal glasses from a bar cart in the corner.
"Brilliant," she said, her British accent thick.
She dropped the glasses onto the table and wrenched a knife from a holster on her thigh, cocking a brow.
"Hold still," she muttered before slicing through the knot of my restraints and setting the ropes loose.
She stood, grabbing the brandy bottle by the neck and lifting it in a silent cheers before disappearing down the hall.
I shook off the rope and blinked down at the ring before carefully plucking it from the table, my stomach clenching. “Arden,” I gritted out. “Not your girl. Arden. And why the fuck am I holding an engagement ring?”
He sighed and took out his wallet, opening it and sliding it across the table. "Maybe this will earn me a little faith?"
My eyes read over the name again and again, my head jerking up when he raised his glass with a wide smile.
Alexander Bishop Creed. The license said his name was fucking Alexander Bishop Creed.
“Cheers, Mrs. Creed,” he said. Then he laid his forearm down on the table and tugged his sleeve up, revealing bold, black lettering that made my heart drop. “To the great escape, wife.”