Page 29 of The Archer’s Wish

His expression twisted, rage, wrath, something ugly brewing behind his eyes.

Then the blow came.

A crack split the air, and Beitris saw nothing but white-hot pain exploding across the left side of her face. She stumbled back, hitting the ground hard, breath knocked completely from her lungs. A gasp tore from her throat, strangled and thin.

Cormac crouched over her, his breath thick with stale ale and bile washing over her, making her stomach churn.

“I said apologize,” he whispered, voice cold enough to freeze her blood.

“I-I am s-sorry,” she wheezed, struggling to pull air into her bruised lungs. Her lip throbbed. The metallic taste of blood pooled on her tongue.

The brute leaned closer, his shadow swallowing her. “Ye will be nice to me next time I see ye. Verra nice.” His tone was a promise of something darker, something that made her skin crawl.

Before he could say more, a shrill cry rose.

“Leave her be!” It was Effie.

A chorus followed as the women surged forward, brooms raised like makeshift spears. Their voices shook with fear and fury alike.

Cormac spat on the ground beside Beitris, the glob landing mere inches from her. Then he straightened, rolled his shoulders, and stalked away, unhurried, unbothered.

She trembled violently as hands rushed to her, lifting her to sit, steadying her, brushing dirt from her arms.

“Water! Fetch water from the well!”

“Anne’s gone to find yer Da and Ma!”

“I’ll run for the healer!” Effie cried out.

Voices overlapped in a frantic rush. Someone pressed a cloth to her face. Someone stroked her arm. Someone cursed Cormac’s name.

Beitris closed her eyes as tears spilled freely. Pain pulsed in terrible waves, from her cheekbone, down her jaw, into her neck.

Moments later, Camden burst through the crowd. He dropped to his knees beside her and with trembling hands helped her stand. His face was a mask of seething rage. His jaw tightly clenched, eyes blazing like fire about to consume everything in its path.

“I will kill him,” he hissed.

“Ye will do nae such thing,” Beitris said, though her voice was thin and shaky. Deep down, she felt the same dark fury. “Keir will see to it.”

As they helped her toward the apothecary, familiar figures came running. Her parents. Her father’s face was red as embers, jaw taut with barely contained fury, while her mother wept openly, reaching for her, touching her face with trembling hands.

The rest of the morning slipped past in a blur, a mug of bitter tonic pressed to her lips, cool cloths laid across her swelling cheek, a poultice rubbed gently into her bruised knees. Every touch brought both pain and comfort.

“Yer face is already swelling badly,” Camden muttered, examining the bruise with grim concern. “Cold compresses will help.”

“What happened?” her mother whispered, voice shaking.

Beitris drew a breath that trembled like a fragile leaf. “He said I owed him an apology for last night. For kicking him when he tried to force me to dance. Then he hit me.” A shudder wracked her body.

“Coward,” her father snarled. The sound so feral, Beitris barely recognized it. “Once Keir gets here, we will see about this.”

Relief washed through her that her father didn’t storm out that very moment. She clutched his sleeve gently. “Aye. Keir will ensure it does nae happen again.”

Then she turned to Camden, whose quiet fury simmered just beneath the surface.

“And ye will nae seek him out either. Promise me.”

Camden’s stare was flat, hard, unyielding. “I will make nae such a promise.”