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…vulnerabilitiesin 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 injuryto 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 explodedwith 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—actuallysnarled—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, nailsraking 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, butI 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.
