Chapter 24 Archer
Archer
Crew’s idea of “bonding” turns out to be renting the boxing ring at the local gym, because of course it does.
He’s practically bouncing when he tosses me some tape, a smug grin plastered across his face.
“Finally gonna settle some scores,” he announces. “The old-fashioned way. No more glaring across the kitchen table. Punches, bruises, blood—male therapy.”
Oscar cracks up silently, his shoulders shaking. His hands move quick. “He’s going down first,” he signs, aiming a wicked grin at Crew.
I sigh and translate. “He says you’re first.”
Crew gasps dramatically, clutching his chest. “Betrayal! Oscar, my future brother-husband! I can’t believe you!”
I roll my eyes, suppressing a grin. Roman’s laugh rumbles low, and Elijah just shakes his head, but no one else says a word.
Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. The ring in the center is roped off and waiting, the canvas stained from a hundred other grudges worked out before ours.
Crew bounces on the balls of his feet like a kid on Christmas. Elijah stands with his arms crossed, jaw set so tight I swear I can hear his molars grind. Oscar’s leaning against the wall. His hands move. “I give it five minutes before someone needs stitches.”
I translate. “Good thing I brought a first aid kit,” Crew says, patting the beat-up duffel at his feet.
I rub my jaw. This is a mistake. I know it. But maybe it’s also necessary. We’ve been circling each other for weeks now. Orbiting in the same dark system, glaring, snapping, avoiding.
Lottie ties us together, sure, but the truth is, we don’t trust each other.
Not really.
Crew knows it. That’s why we’re here.
“Alright,” Crew claps his hands once, loud enough to echo. “Rules are simple. No gloves, no biting, no eye-gouging, and try not to hit the golden goods. Beyond that? Have at it.”
I arch a brow. “That’s not rules, Crew. That’s an invitation for murder.”
“Details,” he chirps, waving his hand dismissively.
Oscar’s hands move, a wicked grin on his face. “I’m hitting the husband.”
I don’t bother translating this time. The grin on his face says it all, and I know he needs this.
The ropes creak as Roman climbs into the ring, all sharp lines and his posture tense. He doesn’t bounce on his toes, doesn’t roll his shoulders. He just stands there, calm as stone, watching me like a wolf waiting to see if the deer will run.
“Get in,” he says simply.
I sigh and slide between the ropes.
Every part of my training in the Marines kicks in, and I search him for weaknesses. The obvious is that he’s still recovering. Bullet wounds don’t heal in just a few weeks, no matter how much he claims he’s fine, but I’m not here to fight dirty.
I flex my shoulders, slow my breath.
This isn’t about making him hurt. This is about moving on.
It’s about boundaries, respect, and consequences.
I raise my bare hands up, muscles coiled.
He hurt her.
She’s not just mine anymore—she loves all of them, and even if she’s not ready to admit it. I know. But that doesn’t make this any less necessary.
He needs to feel it.
The medusa snakes stare back at me, coiling down his jaw, and a small part of me hates it because of what it represents.
The bell sounds. Crew’s obnoxious timer and Roman come at me immediately. His first strike is sharp, aimed at my face. I pivot, letting it glance past. He’s fast, but predictable.
“You always look at me like you hate me,” he mutters.
“Because I do,” I reply, calm, coiled. I snap a punch across his jaw.
He grunts, stepping back, surprise flickering in his eyes.
“I hate you because of what you represent. Pain. Her pain. You. Your father. It all leads to her jumping from that cliff and into the waves.” Punch.
“It leads to her heart stopping.” Punch.
“It leads to her spending two years in therapy just to be able to talk again…To her, hurting in ways she shouldn’t have to. You made her world smaller, darker.”
His fists are sharp, precise. Mine are honed, trained, and lethal if necessary.
We collide, bare knuckles scraping, forearms slamming.
“You think hitting me will fix anything?” he snarls.
“Yes.”
I pivot, drive a clean strike into his ribs, follow with a precise elbow to his shoulder. He staggers but recovers. The corner of his mouth twitches like he wants to laugh.
We circle each other, trading controlled blows—one testing the other, both probing for limits.
There’s tension, but also a subtle rhythm forming, like a conversation through movement rather than words.
Neither of us is trying to destroy the other.
We’re clearing the air, setting boundaries with fists.
I duck under a wild swing, slide along the side of his body, and hammer a strike to his ribs that makes him grunt. He recovers, throws a right hook, and I slip, twisting, and snap a short jab into his shoulder. He flinches.
We trade a few more blows—each one calculated, efficient, measured—but not without force.
There’s a rhythm to it now, less fury, more dialogue in motion. I catch his right fist, redirect, and hit the side of his ribs. He catches me with a jab to the shoulder, and we both step back, breathing hard.
We pause for a heartbeat, studying each other, knuckles scraped, skin reddened, sweat dripping. The timer shrills again. Crew yells from the corner, but I barely hear it. Roman wipes at his mouth, catches his breath, and I offer my hand.
He stares, wary. Then, slowly, he takes it. Not a friend. Not quite, but the respect is there.
“I don’t like what you did,” I say quietly, “but I don’t hate you. Just don’t hurt her again.”
“I won’t,” he replies, voice low but steady. “I get it. And… thanks for not trying to kill me in the process.”
“It wasn’t easy, but I know that would hurt her, and that’s something I refuse to do.”
This feels different before it even starts.
The ropes creak again as Oscar climbs in. He doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t even glance at the rest of us. His hands are already taped, fists flexing, shoulders rolled loose and ready.
Elijah steps through the ropes opposite him. I see the tension in his jaw. He knows what this is about.
Crew mutters from the sideline, “This is gonna be ugly.”
The timer shrills.
Oscar moves first.
No hesitation, no warning. A blur of fists. His jab cracks against Elijah’s chin before he even blinks. The second follows immediately, a hook slamming into his ribs. Elijah absorbs it, stepping back, blocking high, but Oscar’s already inside his guard.
Every strike says what he doesn’t sign.
You hurt her.
You don’t get to take what isn’t yours.
Elijah swings, sharp and calculated, but Oscar slips under it, ducks low, and punishes him with a brutal uppercut that snaps his head back. The sound echoes through the gym.
Elijah spits blood, then resets.
His stance narrows, eyes sharper now, but Oscar’s relentless. He doesn’t fight wild—he fights surgical. Every punch lands with intent, each one a wordless accusation. A left hook to the temple. A straight right to the ribs. A jab to the throat, just shy of crippling.
Mockery flickers in Oscar’s eyes. He doesn’t smile, but the way he drops his guard for a second, daring Elijah to hit him, is louder than any taunt. Elijah throws a heavy cross. Oscar slips it by inches, then plants his fist square in Elijah’s gut, folding him.
He straightens, staring down at him like he’s already won. Like, Elijah isn’t worth the breath it would take to insult him.
Elijah growls, rallies, drives forward with a flurry of strikes.
For a few seconds, it’s chaos.
Fists blur, bodies clash, knuckles crack against flesh. But Oscar weathers it. Always precise, always countering. Every time Elijah tries to build momentum, Oscar dismantles it with a single punishing shot.
One-two. Ribs, jaw. Step back. Sidestep. Hook.
Blood runs from Elijah’s lip, staining his chest. His breaths are ragged. But Oscar’s barely touched, only sweat beading his brow.
I catch the look in his eyes then. He doesn’t need to sign it. He doesn’t need me to translate. It’s written in the fists that keep finding their mark: She’s mine.
The timer shrills again.
Oscar stops mid-motion, chest heaving, fists still curled tight at his sides. His eyes burn holes through Elijah, every muscle ready to launch again if he twitches wrong.
Elijah’s hunched, blood dripping from his mouth, ribs bruised, but he’s still standing. He spits red onto the mat, wipes his lip with the back of his hand, and lifts his chin. For the first time, all fight, there’s no arrogance in his stare… only raw honesty.
The silence stretches, thick as the sweat on the ropes.
Then Oscar steps forward. He doesn’t raise his fists. Instead, he sticks out a hand.
The whole room goes still.
For a beat, Elijah just blinks at it. Wariness flickers in his eyes, suspicion, maybe even guilt. But then, with a grimace, he reaches out. Their palms smack together, rough and hard, and neither lets go right away.
Oscar’s stare is sharp, unyielding. “You don’t get to hurt her. Not again. I don’t care if you are her husband on paper. You even so much as make her cry, and I won’t stop next time.”
Elijah’s lips twitch, not into a smirk, but something grimmer, smaller. He nods once. “Understood, but I have no intention of ever hurting my wife again.”
And just like that, the grip breaks.
The ropes groan again, and for a second I think Roman’s about to drag himself back in for another round, but it’s my dad.
He doesn’t say a word at first. He just walks across the floor like the ground owes him space. Same old boots, same broad shoulders. He’s got that look, the one that used to make me shut my mouth as a kid, the one that says he’s already decided what’s happening and I’d better keep up.
“Dad?” My throat’s tight.
He cuts me off with a hand, eyes fixed on Crew.
“Relax,” he says, voice steady. “I’m not here to haul anyone out by the ear. Just making sure nobody’s dead.”
His gaze sweeps over Roman with his bruised jaw, Elijah with blood still on his lip, and Oscar pacing like a caged tiger. Then it lands back on Crew, who looks way too entertained by the whole thing.
Will exhales through his nose. “Christ. You boys don’t half-measure, do you?”
Crew flashes a grin like he’s been waiting for this all night. “Still breathing. That’s half the battle, right?”
Dad studies him for a long moment. “You’re up.”
I nearly choke. “You’re going to kill him.”
But Crew’s eyebrows shoot up, eyes bright. “Me? You serious?”
Dad doesn’t look away as he unbuttons his cuffs. Just calm. He plants himself in the center of the ring. “You’ve been carrying too much without an outlet. That’s dangerous.”
Crew barks a laugh, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “What, this is about the whole addict thing? Because, I swear, I’ve been clean. Haven’t touched a damn thing.”
Dad shakes his head. “I know. I believe you. But staying clean isn’t just about not using. It’s about finding another way to burn through the weight. You’ve been holding it all in since she came back, and I see it. You need somewhere to put it.”
For once, Crew doesn’t have a snappy comeback. His grin falters, just a little. His throat works, like he’s swallowing something heavy. “So what, this is therapy with fists?”
Dad’s mouth twitches into the faintest smile. “Worked well enough for me in the past… Let’s see if you can keep up.”
The timer shrills.
Crew launches first—fast, wild hands, testing Dad’s guard. He fights the way he talks. Quick, unpredictable, sometimes reckless.
A jab here, a hook there, enough to make anyone else stumble. But Dad absorbs, redirects, blocks. Calm, steady, breathing like he’s sparring, not brawling.
Crew smirks, feints left, and lands a jab to Dad’s ribs, but Dad barely flinches. Dad exhales through his nose, then fires back with a short, controlled body shot that doubles Crew over without malice.
Crew laughs, wheezing. “Fuck… You don’t even sound winded.”
“Not the point,” Dad replies. “The point is survival. Learning to burn through everything without turning to something that’ll rip apart your whole family.”
Crew circles, wiping sweat from his brow.
His grin is slipping, his movements sharper now, angrier.
“You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t already know I’m one slip away from wrecking everything?
From letting her down?” His fists lash out again, frantic, catching Dad’s shoulder this time.
“I promised her. I promised all of you. I stay clean, I don’t fall back, I don’t fucking ruin her life like every other man has—”
Dad blocks the next blow, grips Crew’s wrist, and steadies him with the kind of control that isn’t about dominance—it’s about grounding.
“Crew. You’re not your father. You’re not her father.
You’re not the men who broke her. You’re you.
And she needs you that way. Not as a martyr. Not as a ghost. Just you.”
Crew freezes, chest heaving, sweat dripping into his eyes. His mask slips completely, and for a second, he looks younger. Lost.
He shakes his head, laughs hollow. “You say that like it’s enough.”
Dad releases his wrist, steps back, and opens his hands. “It is. But you’ve got to believe it before it’ll stick.”
The timer shrills again.
Crew drops his hands, staggering back, laughing breathlessly. His chest heaves like he’s been carrying that weight for years, and maybe he has. He runs a hand down his face and mutters, “Shit. I think I like you, old man.”
Dad steps forward, extending his hand. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere, I told you I’d help you stay clean, and I meant it.” His voice softens. “But that means you don’t get to do this alone. You come to me. You burn it off here, not in a bottle of pills. Understood?”
Crew stares at the hand for a long beat. Then he grips it, tight. “Understood.”
The ropes creak one last time as Dad steps out.
He doesn’t look back, just gathers his jacket and towel, calm as ever. The air in the gym feels different now. Less raw, less ready to explode.
More… settled. Still doesn’t mean I like them.
Crew’s still breathing hard, leaning on the ropes with a hand pressed to his ribs. He gives Dad a nod as he leaves.
Dad pauses at the door, looks over his shoulder. “Go cool off. I’ll see you tomorrow, and your Mom has Lottie, so you don’t need to worry.”
And then he’s gone.