“No, tell me.” Morgan’s tone was sardonic. “Being able to read people well doesn’t mean she’s different or anything of the sort. It takes so little for a lady’s reputation to be tarnished, and the last thing she needs is someone like—” He paused.

Rowles stilled. “Someone like?” he asked, pain lacing through him at the words left unsaid.

“I was wrong,” Morgan apologized, though his tone was anything but apologetic.

“What were you going to say, Penderdale?” Rowles asked, his hands clenching into fists.

“I wouldn’t want to offend, Your Grace.” Morgan took the final sip of his drink and stood.

Rowles stood as well, easily towering over his friend. “‘Your Grace’?” he scoffed. “Since when have you cared about my title?”

“When you’re pissing me off,” Morgan replied with a scowl.

“And what have I done to offend you?” Rowles asked with a biting tone. “Or do you still let that temper of yours run away with your mouth?”

Morgan glowered, stepped back as if about to leave, then swung. His fist landed a nice facer on Rowles’s jawline. Stumbling back, Rowles rubbed the mark and swore under his breath. “Is that how it’s going to be?” He lunged forward, landed a right hook on Morgan’s cheek, and blocked a blow to his own. It had been an age since he’d boxed, but the moves came back instinctively, and while Morgan had the advantage with swords and pistols, Rowles had always won in fisticuffs, even if the whole sordid mess was blurry from his drinking.

After all, this wasn’t the first fight they’d had, and it likely wouldn’t be the last.

Rowles landed a punch to Morgan’s gut and then another to his head, effectively blocking his friend’s advances. Morgan spat blood, then reared back and at the last moment switched fists. He bypassed Rowles’s block and landed a punch to the corner of his left eye.

Rowles blinked back the bright light that exploded at the impact. “Always want the last word and the last punch, even if you still lose,” he said, sneering.

Morgan spat more blood. “Better a man assault you than your own mother,” Morgan whispered, then paused. He took a few steps back.

Rowles blinked at the powerful onslaught of his friend’s words pummeling him from the inside out.

“That…that was too far. Pardon me,” Morgan apologized, his expression one of anguish. “I shouldn’t have said such things.”

Rowles nodded once.

“Truly,” Morgan added, and then took several more backward steps before he turned to leave.

Rowles watched his friend’s retreat, his face, leg, and abdomen aching, but it was nothing compared to his heart.

Whoever said words were meaningless had certainly never had them aimed like arrows.

Because words could destroy faster than any weapon ever could. And it felt like he was bleeding internally.

Eight