In the Dark with the Duke by Christi Caldwell Page 0,23

. he answered to these men.

No different from an indentured servant, paying off a debt that could never be paid.

Hugh made one more attempt. “I’ve got the cleaning to see to,” he said. The upkeep of the arena had been the other thankless job that had been passed on to him upon his arrival years earlier. Aside from the occasional street urchin they’d pay a few pence to, that work had stayed in Hugh’s hands. Even so, it was far preferable to fighting.

Maynard spit out a mouthful of saliva, staining the floor Hugh had just swept. “Cleaning is a waste when ya still ’ave good foighting years in ya.”

Hugh ignored him. Instead, he dusted a rag down a crude bench soaked in spirits that some spectator had spilled. Except, is Maynard really wrong? Fighting was all Hugh knew. He hated what he was. Attempting to escape that lifestyle, he’d walked away before, and only found himself mired in even greater death and misery.

Ultimately, Bragger cut right to it. “Profits are down. If we’re going to ’ire Steele loike ya suggested, we’re gonna need to pay ’im.”

“It wouldn’t be wise to expect I’m to be the only draw. There’ve got to be others.” Some poor romantic fool who glorified the sport.

Maynard’s mouth tensed. “But there aren’t now, Savage. Not any fighter who’s going to draw patrons in.”

Hugh’s stomach muscles knotted.

There is no way around it.

They’d not rest until he stepped into the ring and battered another desperate man for a bloodthirsty crowd’s pleasure. He’d contentedly clean spit and blood off the floor before putting himself through that. But what other choice did he have?

He couldn’t walk away. He’d done that years ago, and left Maynard, Bragger, Valerie . . . and so many others to their fates. And upon Hugh’s return . . . how had the pair of proprietors responded to that past betrayal? Not with resentment or loathing. Instead, they’d taken him in. They’d been there for him at his worst.

“Let’s ’ave a go with me in the ring,” Bragger repeated. This time, it was a clear command issued, and the evil that surely ran in Hugh’s blood jeered him for wanting to turn and unleash all the frustration at his failings and ties that bound him into a fight.

And what was worse? This hungering to face the bigger, broader man. Because of the hold he had over Hugh. Because of the debt Hugh would always owe him. But then, that was the soul of a fighter, no matter how much one might wish it, or how much one disavowed the battle, there were moments when the primal instincts reared and a man couldn’t separate himself from what he was.

Bragger grinned as Hugh shed his jacket and shirt, tossing them at a nearby hook.

It was hard to say how many times and to how many men Hugh had sold his soul, but there was no doubt Bragger had been one of them. Whether he liked it or not, he was indebted to them for the future they’d saved him from, and the one they’d given him.

Hugh joined the other fighter at the center of the ring.

Head back, one arm held closer to his body, the other lead hand extended, Hugh kept a careful eye on his opponent.

No matter their size, the trick to besting a man in any fight came down to one specific detail—attention.

Focus. Concentration.

It was a fact not known to most of the fighters who battled with their bare knuckles on the streets or in fighting rings.

All of it.

The pain.

Jab-Jab—Uppercut.

The loss.

“Ya ’ad any thoughts about wot we could do to turn our profits around?” Bragger asked as they stepped around each other. His raised arms and focused gaze belied the conversational quality to his tone.

Hugh didn’t take his eyes off Bragger’s elevated fists. “I’m sure you’ve had thoughts yourself.” He landed a sharp jab to the other man’s flat stomach.

Bragger grunted but remained otherwise unfazed. “Aye, Oi ’ave. Ya’ll fill the arena. Ya always do.”

And there it was. Even expected as it’d been, Hugh was caught off balance.

Bragger pounced, shooting a fist out and catching him in the jaw.

Staggering under the force of that blow, Hugh swiftly righted himself and then danced away from his opponent, giving himself a moment to recover.

Once he had his legs under him, he danced back toward the middle of the floor. “The ring’s mismanaged.” It had been since Hugh had set foot inside years earlier. It was also Bragger’s weakness. This