As soon as he crossed the threshold, a buzz of electricity sounded behind him—invisible ropes to lock him in. While Demarkus secured his long hair in a ponytail, Four-Eyes stood outside the ring and hollered to the crowd, “Witnesses, give heed!” The room quieted, and he went on. “This is a formal challenge of bare-fisted combat brought by Daro the Red against Demarkus Hahn for dissolution of marriage. There are no moves barred, and the last man standing wins.” He addressed his chief and bowed.
Demarkus flexed his long fingers and bent his head to the side, cracking his neck. He rolled both shoulders and nodded as if to signal his readiness. Doran figured he should probably loosen up, too, but it was all he could do to keep his wobbling knees locked. The smile had left his opponent’s face, and now Demarkus approached in sure steps, his fists raised and ready to strike.
Doran shifted his weight to the balls of his feet in an attempt to dodge the first blow, but a flash of skin blurred in front of him and connected with his left eye. Like whiplash, his head jerked back, sending him flailing for balance. The pain came next, a dull throb around his eye socket that he barely had time to register before another jab sent him tumbling to the floor. He landed hard on his ass, a jolt ricocheting up his tailbone.
The crowd roared with laughter.
What the hell was that? He thought big men were supposed to be slow.
“Get up,” Demarkus snapped. His brow was stern, his tone scolding. “They’re mocking you. Get on your feet!”
Doran pushed onto all fours and stood up, which lasted for half a second. One right hook to the jaw and he was back on the planks with spots dancing in his vision. This time Demarkus didn’t bother telling him to stand up. He reached down and lifted Doran by the shirt until the soles of his boots met the floor.
With his mouth pressed to Doran’s ear, the pirate whispered, “C’mon, boy. I can’t keep going easy on you, or I’ll lose the respect of my men.”
This was taking it easy on him?
“Fight back,” Demarkus said. “You should be hitting me right now.”
Curling his hand into a fist, Doran grunted and delivered an uppercut to the belly. His knuckles met the tension of flexed abdominal muscles, and Demarkus pulled back and gave him a disappointed look that said, Is that all you’ve got?
“Where’s your fire?” the man asked, shaking Doran’s shirt. Then his gaze focused on something in the background, and a calculating smile curved his lips. “I can see Lara. She looks worried for you.”
A spark of anger ignited in Doran’s belly. He pushed against the pirate’s chest.
“She’s a talented girl,” Demarkus said. “A rare find in these parts. I hope you won’t miss her too badly, because she’s going to love it here. Soon she’ll forget you ever existed.”
Without thinking, Doran head-butted Demarkus in the mouth, then shoved him backward and punched him directly above the groin. Rage took control, humming all over his skin and making him numb. He hit the man again and again, anywhere he could reach, until one giant fist to the chest knocked Doran down. Only then did he notice the blood trickling over Demarkus’s chin.
He’d done it. Doran had drawn first blood.
Demarkus smiled as if he’d gotten exactly what he wanted, and then the fight was on—in earnest. Doran scrambled up from the floor and charged the giant, landing a shoulder in his midsection. Demarkus brought down a hammer of a fist onto Doran’s back, flattening him with ease. As soon as his belly met the floor, Doran rolled aside and avoided a kick to the gut. But he wasn’t quick enough to dodge the next punch, a thunder jab to his good eye.
After that, Doran spent the match ducking and running with minimal success. He peered at his aggressor through the cracks of his swollen eyelids and the stinging sweat that blurred his vision. He couldn’t see his periphery, and Demarkus must’ve known it because three left hooks came in a row. Doran pushed onto his feet only to tense for the next hit—to the mouth, the nose, the stomach. No part of him was safe. At one point, Doran took a blow to the head so hard he saw the future.
And he wasn’t in it.
He began to realize this strategy wouldn’t work. He couldn’t match his opponent in strength or speed, so attempting to wear him down and trip him was a waste of time. To win the fight, he’d have to find Demarkus’s greatest weakness and exploit it. Doran knew the man was arrogant, but how could he use that to his advantage?
To buy himself a few seconds to think, he executed some basic football drills, faking left and darting right while he decided what to do next. He kept hearing Solara’s advice inside his head. Don’t be afraid to fight dirty. His instincts told him that was the key, but how?
Another punch clipped Doran’s jaw with enough force to send him back to the planks, where he bounced twice and landed faceup. The adrenaline began to wear off, allowing a torrent of pain to swallow him whole. His face throbbed like an overinflated balloon. Hot blood flowed over his mouth, and when he darted a tongue over his lips, it slid between a cleft of missing flesh. A selfish part of him wished he could pass out so his suffering would end.
Then an idea came to mind.