STILETTO SISTERHOOD - Book Two

Shayne | Round Two

Shayne threw her weight into the bag, driving with hooked elbows and sharp knees between punches. The facility trainer, Emmett Singh, braced the bag, controlling its swing and sway as he barked instructions. She focused on that bag, on his voice, like light at the end of a dark tunnel. Nothing else existed beyond the ache and burn of punishment jarring her knuckles and knees.

Numb. She wanted to be numb. To be empty.

"Enough." Emmett released the bag. "You're looking tight."

Shayne bounced on her toes, cooling down. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not. Your hooks were sloppy and jabs unfocused."

"I said I was fine."

Emmett shook his dour bald head. Dark skin sheened with sweat. And sighed. "Asher asked me to push you hard while he's handling his legal shit, and that's what I'm doing. Don't jump down my throat because you're letting the 'Razzi get in your head."

Shayne curled her lip with a snarl. Even if he was Asher's right hand and business partner for the last ten years, she didn't appreciate being dragged like this across the grappling mat.

She was. Dammit. Shayne paced in a circle, rolling her shoulders. Exhaustion groaned through her body but she couldn't settle. The last week had been agony of little sleep and a lot of freaking out.

What if Rita didn't come? Without her Shayne didn't stand a chance.

Without her, the Duchess would win.

"Hit the rope," Emmett said. "Two minutes on and thirty off for the next hour, then you're done for the day. Take tomorrow—loosen up, and then we'll go back to your ground game." Tossing a towel over his shoulder, he snagged a water bottle and strode from the empty gymnasium.

Her security team had cleared it out so she could train alone in the early mornings. It was a small facility they'd paid the owner a premium to shut down under the guise of renovations to avoid drawing unwanted attention. It felt like such a waste of money, but she needed a place to workout and thanks to the onslaught of media, flying under the radar with a hoodie wasn't going to cut it.

Plucking up her skipping rope, Shayne gathered the handles in both hands swung it on alternating sides of her body before spreading her arms and leaping into sharp, rapid bursts. Her feet and knees pumping hard to keep up with the whip fast blur of rope.

Sweat poured, muscles screamed, lungs burned and her mind blanked. Two minutes on. Thirty seconds off. She fell into the punctuated rhythm, and let everything else disappear. For those precious minutes there was no throne, no media backlash, no bullshit.

Just the buzz of the rope and the pump of her heart.

"Hostia puta," she wore through the last rep and dropped the rope. Bracing her hands on her knees, she gasped for breath. Droplets of sweat rained from her brow. She was soaked from head to toe.

A hard clap of hands shocked through the rasp of her struggling breaths and Shayne straightened as a man approached. Young, dressed in jeans and shirt rolled up over his forearms. Long waves of burnt caramel hair tossed back from a striking face with rich, dark eyes and sensual mouth.

"Can I help you?" Shayne asked, wiping a towel across her face and neck.

"So this is how our Princessa decides to use tax payer money, is it?" He tucked his hands in his back pocket. "Must admit, I didn't think you were quite this selfish. But I guess when a tree is diseased, it's not surprise that the fruit it bears is rotten."