He’d been good for a fight for days. For decades.

Hefting the heavy weight, he ignored the wicked burn at his shoulder and made his way back across the yard, this time able to see the man who would come for him first. Able to recognize the slur in his Irish brogue. Able to register his slight swerve—a need for balance, even as he stood still.

The man was drunk. Which meant a fight was on.

The crowd knew it, too. They circled, closing in on Ewan. Building him a ring. He kept his gaze on the far end of the yard, but watched the faces, a dozen screwed tight already. More willing to jump into the fray when there was one for the jumping.

How many would he have to fight?

A clump of mud smacked Ewan on the back of the head.

He stilled. Stiffened. Turned.

The bruiser approached. “I’m talkin’ to you, Duke.”

He was eight feet away.

Six.

Ewan looked to the rooftops, where Grace watched, riveted, just like the rest of the Garden. His heart pounded, and his chest broadened.

He wanted to show her what he was still able to do.

Four.

Ewan set the ice down.

Two.

When the blow came, he was ready.

He caught the other man’s fist in his hand, startling him. Ewan’s brows rose as the Irishman’s jaw slackened. “Don’t expect a duke to have a right hook, do you?” he said softly, letting the Garden seep into his voice.

His opponent’s eyes went wide at the words, and then he scowled. “You ain’t got nuffin’ yet, toffer.” He followed the words with a massive swing of his free hand—fisted to the size of a ham.

Ewan dodged the blow and straightened, planting his fist directly into the face of his attacker. “How about now?”

If there was a reply, it was lost in the roar that sounded from all around them, echoing off the brick walls of the warehouse. For a moment, Ewan thought perhaps it was the sound of the thrill of an audience—how interesting could his hauling ice have been for them? But then he heard the sounds of fists meeting flesh. Everywhere.

It wasn’t the thrill of the audience. It was the thrill of the fight.

The whole yard had been watching, waiting, wanting a shot at their own blows. And now, they’d been gifted a proper brawl.

He landed a second blow—a sharp uppercut that knocked his opponent back on his feet, snapping his head properly back on his neck, but before the other man could catch his balance and return to their fight, a hand grasped Ewan’s raw shoulder, sending fire through him as it pulled him around to face him.

He roared the agony of the touch, his blows already launched as he came to face another man, who happily took a punch to the nose before setting his own fist firmly into Ewan’s gut.

The Duke of Marwick hunched over the blow, but recovered quickly, coming back to his full height and the admiration of his new opponent. “You ain’t like any duke I’ve ever seen,” the man said.

“I ain’t like any duke anyone has ever seen,” he replied, and the two were back at it—sparring until another man launched himself into the fight, wanting his own chance to bring down the duke who’d come into the Garden.

And so it went for seconds, minutes, hours—time was lost with dodging blows and throwing his own, making sure they were soft enough when they landed that they didn’t do real damage. He knew why he’d been brought here—to take his knocks. And he would do just that.

Proving to the Bareknuckle Bastards that the money wasn’t all he offered.

Giving the Garden the fight they wanted—on equal footing, no titles or power or money or privilege changing the outcome of the game.

And giving her a look at the man he had become.

Grace.

Just the thought of her was enough to pull his attention from the fight, just enough to miss a dodge and take a strong punch directly to the nose. Pain knocked his head round, and when the stars subsided, he couldn’t help himself—he looked to the rooftops once more.

She was gone.

He froze. A mistake, as another bruiser leapt into the fray to have a go at him. He blocked a swing, pushing the man into another crowd that happily swallowed him up for their own fight.

She was gone, but his brothers remained. Whit watched with intense scrutiny, as though he was learning how to exploit any weakness in Ewan’s strategy for his own purposes, and Devil observed with a smirk that made Ewan wish he could scale buildings for the second time that afternoon—this time to wipe the smile off his arrogant brother’s face.

Where had she gone?

Why hadn’t they gone with her?

Was she safe?

Another round of sparring pulled him away from the rooftops, a half-dozen fighters coming from all directions. Fighting dirty. A hand grabbing his hair, another at the waist of his trousers. A third with a club of some sort. He raised a brow. “Unsportsmanlike, that.”

The brute grinned—revealing a handful of missing teeth, and took a swing. Ewan dodged the blow, just barely, but was not out of danger. Someone grabbed him from behind, slipping one arm beneath his own, and a second around his neck. Holding him tight. Choking him. He struggled, the other men closing in, taking leisurely shots at his torso.

The blows were enough to take the breath from him, and he looked up to the rooftop, meeting first Whit’s eyes, then Devil’s. Neither of his brothers moved to help.

Neither of them would save him.

The arm around his throat tightened, and Devil reached out a gloved hand, extending his thumb. Ewan understood instantly.

And what, you make me a gladiator and feed me to the lions?

Devil snapped his thumb down, to face the earth.

As though waiting for the emperor’s ruling, the arm at Ewan’s neck tightened. He reached up to grab it, unable to get a decent grip. He shouldn’t have pulled his punches with this one.

He looked back at his brothers, high above. Whit was talking, his eyes on something beyond. Devil’s attention followed.

They didn’t even care to watch him die.

The roar of the crowd had lessened, replaced by a different roar, this one in his ears. He was losing consciousness. The air around him was stilling, the brawl seeming to quiet. He leaned his head forward in a last effort to break the hold. He snapped his head back, connecting with the nose of the man behind him, who cried out in pain and released him.

Ewan pulled loose and turned. It was the original Irishman. No. A different one, but with the same face. The same meaty arms. Brothers?

How must that feel? he thought as he stumbled back, gasping for breath. To have brothers who stand with you?

He’d known how it felt once.

Ignoring the blood that streamed from his nose—it seemed Ewan had broken it—the man came for him once again, no doubt to finish the job that had been interrupted.

He backed away, slowly, expecting another set of hands and fists to come from another direction. They didn’t. Instead, silence came.

And it wasn’t in his head.

The fight had come to a stop, all around him.

No. The fight had been stopped, all around him. He looked to the rooftops, where his brothers remained sentry.

Broken Nose’s attention flickered to something in the distance, over Ewan’s shoulder, and whatever he saw there had him coming up short. Whatever it was, it brought restraint to the Garden—a place where restraint was virtually unheard of.