I Hate This Earl (Part Two)

Eric let out a slow breath, his jaw tightening. "You're making a mistake."

Michael raised an eyebrow, amused. "Am I?"

Eric's grip on his arms loosened, his stance shifting ever so slightly. "You think you can just keep me here to take what's mine?"

The Earl chuckled, shaking his head. "I don't think, Eric. I know." He took a step closer. "I've been patient with you. Generous, even. But your luck is running thin."

Matthew could feel the tension in the room coiling like a snake, ready to strike. His mind raced for a way out of this—any way out of this.

[Say nothing. Don't move.] Elliott's voice was low, urgent. [Eric's got a plan.]

Ace was stiff beside him, his fingers twitching at his sides, but he didn't speak. Neither did Matthew.

Michael sighed, rolling his shoulders. "Fine. If you won't sell, then let's make this interesting." His gaze flickered to Matthew. "You say he doesn't fight? Then let's test that."

Matthew's blood turned to ice.

"If the boy can land a single clean hit on me, I'll let you leave. No tricks, no retaliation." The Earl grinned. "But if he can't, he comes with me."

Eric's expression darkened. "That's not—"

[He just wants a way to kill you without consequences. Fucking bastard.]

Michael held up a hand. "It's fair, isn't it? A test of skill. Nothing more."

Matthew swallowed hard, his pulse hammering in his ears.

[He's baiting you,] Elliott warned. [But we don't have a choice.]

"I do have a choice," Matthew thought, lifting his head at last.

"I accept," he said, his voice steady. "But fighting the Earl himself isn't something a mere slave like me would dare to do."

A hush fell over the room. All eyes were on him. A slave speaking so boldly—it was unheard of.

"But," Matthew continued, meeting Michael's gaze, "I will gladly fight one of your sons. Ren is called one of the best Vikings alive, isn't he? I'm sure he would be more than willing to fight me."

A slow murmur rippled through the onlookers, shock evident on their faces.

Matthew's lips curled into a slight smirk as he turned his gaze toward Marie—Ren's soon-to-be wife. A dark bruise marred her right cheek.

Matthew gave her a small wave. He knew exactly what he was doing.

A heavy silence settled over the hall. The flickering torchlight did little to soften the tension hanging in the air.

Ren the Honest. A warrior feared and respected. A man who had no reason to hesitate when it came to killing. And Matthew had just challenged him in front of everyone.

Michael's smirk widened. "You have guts, slave. I'll give you that." His gaze flickered toward Marie, then back to Matthew, a knowing glint in his eyes. "I wonder… are you trying to prove something? Or do you have a death wish?"

Matthew didn't answer. He simply held his ground.

[He's trying to figure you out,] Elliott muttered. [Don't give him anything.]

Michael chuckled. "Very well. If Ren agrees, I see no reason to deny you your little fight." He turned toward the back of the hall, where a few of his men stood. "Fetch my son."

A man immediately left the hall, his boots echoing against the wooden floor.

Eric, still tense beside Matthew, finally spoke. "This is madness." His voice was low, barely above a whisper. "You don't have to do this."

Matthew met his gaze, then shifted his eyes toward Marie once more.

Eric followed his stare, his jaw tightening.

Michael caught the exchange and let out an amused hum. "Ah… I see." He leaned back, arms crossed over his chest. "Very well. You'll have your fight."

Ace stiffened beside Matthew, barely containing his frustration. But he didn't say anything.

A few minutes passed before heavy footsteps approached. Then, the doors to the hall swung open.

Ren the Honest had arrived.

He was a mountain of a man—way taller than Matthew, broader, stronger. His dark eyes locked onto Matthew's immediately, unreadable but piercing. His knuckles were bruised, his stance relaxed yet lethal.

Behind him, the man who had fetched him whispered something in his ear. Ren listened, then exhaled sharply, like this was nothing more than an inconvenience.

Then he looked at his father. "That slave?" His tone was unimpressed.

Michael grinned. "He asked for you specifically."

Ren's eyes flickered toward Matthew again, this time with mild interest. "Is that so?"

Matthew didn't move. Didn't flinch.

Then Ren smirked.

"Fine," he said, rolling his shoulders. "I've been waiting to teach him a lesson."

The crowd in the vast hall shifted, forming a wide circle around them. Even Eric and Ace stepped back, though not before pausing briefly beside Matthew.

Eric placed a firm hand on his shoulder, his grip reassuring. "Stay on your feet," he muttered, his voice low but steady. "He's strong, but strength means nothing if you keep moving."

Ace, standing just behind him, leaned in. "Don't try to match his power. Outthink him," he whispered. Then, with a smirk, he added, "And if you die, I'm taking your portion of Mom's food."

Matthew huffed out a quiet laugh, though his body remained tense. The moment was short-lived as Ren cracked his knuckles, eager to begin.

Still grinning, Ren pulled off his shirt, leaving only his pants on—a warrior's gesture of respect. But Matthew remained still, offering no response in return.

Ren let out a low chuckle. "You've got balls, slave. I'll give you that." He rolled his shoulders, warming up.

"Thanks, I guess," Matthew muttered, his eyes scanning the crowd.

[I have an idea,] Elliott's voice echoed in his head. [You only need to hit him once. Surprise him.]

Before Matthew could even respond, the Earl's voice rang out. "Begin."

No one expected it—except Matthew.

He exploded forward, sprinting straight at the giant. His fist shot out, aiming for Ren's face, every ounce of strength he could muster packed into the punch. If he could land it, maybe he could end this before it even truly began.

The crowd roared.

Then, suddenly, Matthew's momentum came to a brutal halt.

He looked up. His fist was caught. Trapped in Ren's right hand.

Matthew's eyes widened as he stared ahead, seeing Ren's smirking face.

Then came five words that made his stomach drop.

"You call that a punch?"

Before Matthew could react, Ren twisted his arm at an impossible angle. Pain shot through him like fire. A moment later, a solid fist slammed into his chest.

The world blurred as Matthew crashed to the ground, gasping for air, his lungs refusing to cooperate.

The impact rattled through his ribs, knocking the breath from his lungs. He barely registered the gasps from the crowd as he lay there, struggling to pull in air.

[Get up. Now.] Elliott's voice was sharp, urgent.

Matthew forced himself onto his hands and knees, coughing as his lungs finally started working again. His entire body ached from just one hit.

Ren rolled his shoulders, flexing his fingers. "That all you got?" He sounded almost disappointed.

Matthew pushed himself to his feet, legs unsteady but holding. His chest burned with each breath, but he couldn't afford to show weakness. Not now.

Ace's voice cut through the murmurs of the crowd. "Come on, Elliott! Stay on your feet!"

Eric's arms were crossed, his expression unreadable.

Matthew wiped the sweat from his brow, swallowing back the lingering pain. He had rushed in like an idiot, and now he was paying for it.

[Alright, dumbass, listen up.] Elliott's voice was calmer now, but firm. [You're not going to overpower him. You need to outlast him. Dodge, wear him down, and when the moment comes—strike.]

Matthew exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders. This wasn't just about brute strength. If he wanted to win, he had to be smart.

Ren smirked. "Still standing? Good. I was hoping this wouldn't be over too quickly."

He cracked his knuckles. "Now, let's try that again."

And he charged.