One moment, Archer was winning the fight, and the next moment, arms were wrapping around him and hauling him back.
Balfour was panting in a heap on the ground before him. He spat, and a moment later, a splash of red covered the packed earth of the sparring ring.
“Enough,” Marcus’ voice growled in Archer’s ear, telling him he was one of the people who was hauling him back. “That’s enough, Arch.”
But it wasn’t enough. He had beaten Balfour; that much was certain. But the rage and frustration and helplessness that were spiraling in the pit of his stomach were far from gone.
It made his skin crawl, his fists still clenching with the need to punch something again.
“Who else wants to fight me?” Archer hissed, his eyes wild as they scanned the crowd.
Guards lined the walls of the ring, exchanging nervous glances as they took a step back. No one else wanted to step into the ring with him.
Had Archer been a little more logical, he would have understood. Balfour was not the first or the second person that he’d beaten badly that day, but the third.
One after the other, Archer had beaten them to a pulp. He was certain that if he glanced at his knuckles right then, they would be bruised, cracked, and bleeding.
And still, none of it had been enough.
“Ye want to go again?” Marcus growled in Archer’s ear as Balfour was helped to his feet. “Then ye’ll go against me.”
Two men rushed forward, putting one of each of Balfour’s arms over his shoulders and helping him out of the ring. The moment the space was cleared, Marcus let go of him and shoved.
Archer stumbled forward, immediately raising his fists to a fighter’s stance as he turned to face Marcus. His cousin looked at him, matching the stance as the two began to move.
They had been fighting like this since they were children, which meant that they were evenly matched. They circled each other, waiting for the other to make the first move.
Typically, Archer was a patient fighter, waiting for his opponent to begin and show their weaknesses so that he could end it quickly. But today?
Today, he was anything but patient.
He stepped forward, his fist flying out as he threw a punch toward Marcus’ shoulder. Marcus raised his forearm, using it to block the punch and slip past Archer.
“Is that all ye’re goin’ to do today?” Marcus taunted, dancing on the balls of his feet and forcing Archer to keep moving, to keep on the defensive. “Dancin’ around and fightin’ everyone? Goin’ to keep beatin’ yer guards bloody?”
“What else is there to do?” Archer grunted, swinging once more at Marcus, who once again dodged it effortlessly.
I’m nae on me best game. I’m too distracted, and we’re too evenly matched. I need to get it together.
But just as he thought it, visions of ice blue eyes danced before him.
Archer growled, barely allowing Marcus to recover before he threw another punch and then another.
“Why did ye let her leave?” Marcus growled as he ducked and dodged blow after blow. “It’s clear ye dinnae want her to go. So why did ye let her? Why did ye command her to go?”
“Stop speakin’ about things ye daenae understand,” Archer growled.
He jabbed his right fist forward, crossing his body. When Marcus dodged, Archer surprised him with a left hook.
Marcus clearly hadn’t seen that move coming, and it made contact with his face. His man-at-arms staggered back, but he didn’t drop his guard.
“Good hit,” Marcus spat, feeling out his balance once more as he danced onto the tips of his toes. “But that doesnae change the fact that ye seem set to rage at everyone around ye, when the only person that ye have to be mad at is yerself.”
Archer growled low in his throat, the ice-cold anger inside him reaching an all-time high. He wanted to throw another punch, but what would that solve?
Marcus would just dodge it. Or, he wouldn’t, and he’d just taunt Archer again. He didn’t want to hear it, not anymore.
Archer stopped moving, dropping his hands to his side.