He shed everything, stripping down to fists and adrenaline.
“TheHelm,” his opponent sneered, before letting out a dark laugh.
The nickname irked him, unoriginal yet reputable.
Gabriel recognized Mr. Thomas, a viscount’s son who lived in Averby. Bartley was closer to Averby than Stonehelm, but it was still quite a journey.
“I have wanted to face you for a while now,” Thomas added. “I admit I am more battered up than I would have liked, but?—”
Gabriel landed the first punch. He had no patience for idle talk.
Thomas staggered backward, fumbling for the rope that separated the ring from the crowd. He fell against it, using the momentum to propel himself back up and barrel into Gabriel. He was a good opponent, but easy to beat.
This fight won’t last long enough.
Gabriel neededfire. He needed a hard, heavy fight. But for now, he would take what he could.
He swung his fists, letting his mind disconnect from his body. The frustration Sibyl stirred within him, every moment he could not place his emotions, trying to hold back from saying too much, annoyed that he said too little, annoyed that he was even feeling that way at all—he poured it all into the fight.
His teeth were bared as he let his anger guide his fists and knocked Thomas to the ground. Looming over him, Gabriel planted a hand on the man’s chest while he pummeled him with the other.
The crowd screamed around him, chanting his name in the dank room. Wads of cash were handed back and forth.
It all washed over him, and the power that he felt was unmatched.
He didn’t care for victory; he cared for release. But the fight ended too quickly, and theHelmwas declared the winner.
Gabriel considered facing another opponent, but in the end, he ducked beneath the rope, his body feeling the loss of adrenaline.
Thoughts of Sibyl had quieted, and his anger had ebbed slightly, but he still felt much better.
Sighing, he made his way back to the taproom, finding an empty corner in the back where he usually sat. He looked around at the faces, flexing his bruised, bloody knuckles. He didn’t have any injuries, having not let Thomas get an inch of him, so that was one less thing to explain when he returned to the manor later.
He waved to a passing barmaid for a drink. To his surprise, she set down two glasses of ale. Before he could say anything, she nodded to the side.
“Nicholas,” he greeted, raising a curious eyebrow at his friend.
Nicholas smiled jovially at him, uncaring of any turmoil on Gabriel’s face. He clapped him on the back. “Rumor has it that the Helm has been storming his way through opponent after opponent. I could not come any sooner to watch you fight, but tonight was quite a treat. Although?—”
“Do not ask,” Gabriel growled. “I am not in the mood tonight, Nicholas.”
Nicholas sighed, sinking into the chair opposite him. “You never are, so I will continue anyway. I did call out to you when you entered, but you looked very intent on jumping into the ring, so I thought I would surprise you after the fight. It was a spectacular win, by the way.”
“It was an easy win,” Gabriel muttered. “Too easy.”
“And yet you left the ring.”
Gabriel shrugged. “I got what I needed.”
“And that is?”
Gabriel said nothing, just took a swig of his ale. He looked around the taproom, thinking of the Duke of Rochdale, who had threatened him at his wedding, and laughed grimly.
“What are you laughing about?” Nicholas asked, crossing his ankle over his knee.
“The Duke of Rochdale threatened me at my wedding,” Gabriel snorted. “Yet he does not know what I do in here.”
Nicholas snickered. “The Beast and the Helm. It would be a grand fight. Two dukes.And, if I recall correctly, he also had a very rocky start with a Wickleby sister.” He gave him a knowing look.
