“No, he’ll be as silent as the grave—”
Henley narrowed his eyes and took a step back.
“That… I didn’t.Okay, poor choice of words on my part but you get the point.”
“Yes, I do.”
“So, you’re sure, I just want to give you a way out if you want it.”Buxby stood straight, waiting.
“I’m sure.”Henley nodded, squeezing his fists and feeling the skin pull over his knuckles.He studied his hands, noting how clean the skin looked now—only the faint crosshatch of old scars remained, quiet reminders of his former fighting history.“It’s about time I earned a few new ones, don’t you think?”
“Scars?Sure.”Buxby grinned, glancing at his own knuckles and the puckered skin there.“Each one has a story, after all.”
“That’s the truth.”Henley noted the tight line of Buxby’s mouth.“It’s just a practice fight.Not a real one.”He paused.“Help the new kid out, that’s all this is.No one knows, no one hears about it, and I’m a ghost as far as anyone’s concerned.”
Buxby winced.“Yeah, a bloody ghost.Damn, I missed you, kid.”
Henley bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, throwing a few warm-up jabs.
“He’ll be here.Couldn’t wait to get a piece of you.”
“Cocky bastard, is he?That’ll make it more fun.”Henley chuckled.“I remember being new.Humility goes a long way.”
“It does, and this kid needs a dose.But not total destruction, if you catch my meaning.Let him learn.”
“I will.And I won’t even have to say a word.”
Buxby nodded and waved someone over from the side.
Henley studied the approaching figure.Despite Buxby calling him akid, he couldn’t have been more than a year or two younger.
“Lord Allendale,” the fellow greeted, nodding at Henley.
“No need for formalities in a fight.”
Buxby leaned against a nearby pillar marking the fighting ring.“You’ll want to call him far less honorable things once you feel his undercut.”He grinned.“But for now, first names will do.Henley, this is Mr.George.”
“A pleasure.”Henley extended a hand and noted the strength of George’s grip.
Overly firm—a clear sign of someone trying to prove themselves.In the ring, one didn’t prove anything until the bell rang.Jumping the gun gave away their hand.Boxing was like poker—you keep your cards close.
“Shall we?”Henley gestured to the practice floor.As George stepped into the ring, Henley observed his every movement—the hitch of a shoulder, repeated gestures, the subtle imbalance.George rolled his left shoulder three times, his right only once.Stiffness?A left-handed fighter, perhaps.
“One round,” Buxby said.“You know the rules—knockdown means eight seconds to come up to scratch.If not, it’s over.London prize ring rules apply.No biting, kicking, below-the-belt hits, or gouging.”
Henley flexed and unflexed his fists, nodding once.“Shall we?”
“Let’s,” George replied.
Henley heard Buxby sigh—then the bell rang.
George danced quickly, nimbly around the floor.He darted in close, only to retreat, testing Henley’s reaction.Seeing if he’d flinch.
Henley didn’t.He stood firm, letting the fight come to him.
George lunged, aiming a punch at Henley’s jaw.
Henley took the hit—not dodging, not blocking.Testing the power behind it.The blow landed on his lower jaw, a strong spot.It hurt—but more in an irritating way than incapacitating.
