Pain was a white hot flash behind her eyes and Shayne cursed hotly, in fluent and seething Spanish.

"Serves you right," Asher scolded, releasing her face. "What the hell was wrong with you? A toddler could've ducked that elbow." A warm, wet rag was pressed to her throbbing right brow, obscuring half of his stern, unamused face. "We're three weeks out, Melo. You've gotta get your head in the game if you think you stand a chance of beating Pacheco."

"It's just a scratch."

"I can see your f*cking skull, kid. It's more than a scratch. You need stitches."

"Asher, seriously—" Shayne attempted to scoot off the examination table Asher had set up in the back of the gym when the world went a little woozy. His hands braced her shoulders, eased her back so she was propped against the wall.

"If you're lucky—really lucky—this may mend in time to keep you in the ring, otherwise I'll have no choice but to pull you out."

The world pitched a second time, but this time from fear. This was more than a simple fight, but her entire life. Everything she'd fought and bled for—literally—hinged upon this moment. A televised event with her pitted against a welterweight champion would launch her as a serious contender. All that stood in her way was three five minute rounds. And Asher. "Please," she said, closing her hand around his wrist. "Don't do that."

The hard lines framing his stern mouth remained unmoving."I'm waiting for the medic to get here before I decide." Tossing the rag into the bowl of ice water, he crossed his arms, muscles bulging, and his hair gathered into a sloppy man bun atop his head. "You're not focused, Melo. You've been distant and distracted this last week, what's eating you?"

"Nothing." She tried to shrug but her shoulder protested the movement. She'd wrenched in after taking her sparring partner to the mat and won by a gorgeous submission that cost her a swelling eye, sore shoulder and a cut over her brow.

"Shayne—"

"I'm fine, Asher. I'm good."

A soft hand knocked lightly on the door and both Shayne and Asher's attention swung to the doorway where Rita stood, wearing faded stonewash jeans that tapered at the ankle. Her dark hair down and a loosely fitted white t-shirt. This was the most casual Shayne had ever seen her dressed.

"Sorry," face twisted into an apologetic grimace, "I didn't mean—Debbie says there's a call for you, Asher. Something about the mat delivery?"

Asher pushed his hands over his face with a curse. "Right. Okay. You," he jabbed a finger at Rita, "Keep an eye on this one and make sure she doesn't do something stupid, like take off before the medic gets here." Casting Shayne a single, warning glare, he stalked off to deal with business matters. Leaving the two of them alone together.

They'd seen each other a couple of times since the little incident, once for a meet with a speech instructor who worked Shayne through three hours of posture, voice control and pitch, delivery and enunciation—both in English and Spanish.

And the second time was for an afternoon of shopping, as she worked through wardrobe choice and selection, picking out several outfits that were both appropriate to her rising royal image while still holding on to bits of her edgy charm. But in both cases Rita had been removed and glued to her phone, only coming around as much as absolutely necessary to offer input or advice.

A chilling kind of distance that hurt but she couldn't fault Rita for, either.

Shayne jerked as a cold hand brushed the side of her face.

"Sorry, did that hurt?"

"No," she mumbled, drawing back to look up at Rita. From the way she was sitting, perched on the padded examination table, they were about level.

"It's still bleeding. Here." Rita gathered the abandoned rag from the bowl of murky water and wrung it out between her elegant hands before pressing lightly against the side of Shayne's face.

"It looks worse than it is," Shayne assured in between Rita's ministrations. "I'll only need a couple stitches, if that. Asher's freaking out over nothing." Nothing worth wasting time in a hospital waiting room over, at least. And she repressed a shudder at the thought. Hospitals were meant for the clinically sick or dying and Shayne refused to set foot in one unless she was either.

"He's right," Rita whispered, applying pressure between dabs. "You were pretty distracted in there."

Her heart kicked with a lurch. "You were watching?"

Rita nodded stiffly. "I came by to speak with you about developments with Mateo's ascension. His email?" Shayne offered a noncommittal sound. She'd seen the chain of correspondence between her brother and team of advisors briefly this morning and had skimmed through most of it.

And of course the planned announcement date where her brother was to stand up and accept the crown happened to coincide with her fight at the end of the month.

With their uncle's health on the rapid decline, reports were already swirling through the media that Mateo was gearing up to claim the title as the new King to wear the crown. And as loved as her brother was, the grumbles of descent were coming in thick and fast. Shayne may be the one gearing up to step into the ring in a few weeks, but it was in actuality her brother who had one hell of a fight on his hands to rally a country mired in economic depression.

Their uncle, Victor 'Pacho' Manuel had held the throne since the late seventies and in the highest esteem for most of his reign as he helped steered the country to democracy following the death of Dictator General Francisco Franco. But that regard diminished amid a series of scandals involving his youngest daughter whom had to testify in a fraud and money-laundering. The king himself faced widespread criticism after long whispered rumors of infidelity were proven true with salacious photos of him having an affair with a Chilean model.

The influence of the Spanish monarchy with the people had limped on ever since.

Recognizing the persisting economic crisis that left a quarter of Spaniards out of work, her brother planned for a frugal celebration following his proclamation. By royal standards, the ascension of her brother and his fiancée was set to be a humble standing reception of tapas and sparkling Spanish wine.

"He wants you there," Rita continued, peeling back the rag, her tender gaze glued to Shayne's wound and though it pulsed like a struck thumb, that side of her face was going blessedly numb.

"I told him I will be. After the fight." And not only Shayne, but all of her Sisters, too. The five of them flying out from Vegas to Madrid immediately after the post-fight press conference; the last but vital piece of business where UFC officials announce the winners, the Performance of the Night bonuses, and the winning fighters met with the media for Q and A.

Brown eyes flickered to hers making direct contact for the first time since Rita had entered the room. "There will always be other opportunities."

"Don't start on this."

"It would look incredibly awkward to have you standing by his side with a busted face," Rita said, setting her fisted hands to her hips. "I mean look at you, swollen eye—gashed eyebrow—you're a mess, Shayne."

A teasing smile tugged at the corner of Shayne's lips. "Yeah, but a very hot mess." At Rita's galled but amused expression, Shayne's arms folded around herself with belly aching laughter.

"Oh yeah? This'll teach you. Smartass." Rita wanted to smile but smothered it and before Shayne caught on she plucked up the slender bottle of alcohol and spritzed the open cut.

"Hostia—" Swallowing the rest, Shayne's hands instinctively shot out and cinched around Rita's waist, jerking her closer. Bodies bumped and faces got close.

Too close. And the sudden whip of need spiked in a hot burst behind her eyes. Shayne's hands quickly fell away and, clearing her throat, Rita stepped back.

"Shayne..." she looped her hair behind her ear, "I work for you."

"I know."

"And I'm married."

"I know," she muttered, mouth dry and heart throbbing. "I'm sorry...I just—f*ck me." Hands planted at her sides, Shayne dropped her head, and heaved a heavy breath. "I didn't expect to—this, I didn't expect this, okay? But I'm working on it. Processing it."

Rita's hands slid into the back pockets of her snug jeans. "Is this going to be a problem?"

"No. Absolutely not."

"Good." At that moment the door pushed open and Asher returned with a dowdy older man behind him, carrying a heavy red bag with black straps and a white cross on all four sides.

"She's got a deep gash across the right eyebrow. Some minor swelling in her shoulder and eye."

"Sorry I'm so late. It's been a busy, busy night." The medic set down his heavy bag and Rita stepped far back and off to the side, excusing herself as he collected Shayne's face in his hands. Assessing her carefully. "Now, let's see that pretty face."

Stale breath washed over her as he breathed heavily and grunted to himself as he angled her left then right and left again. "Not too bad. You'll have a scar. Not much I can do about that, I'm afraid."

"S'fine," Shayne answered stiffly when he let her go to unzip the top compartment of his bag. "I don't need the localized," she added as he raised the numbing agent before her eyes.

"Are you sure?"

She bobbed a nod. "Very. Just get it over with, alright?"

His lips pulled to the side as he returned the needle to the bag and lifted out the suture hook and silk. Angling her face into the position for access and light, he threaded the needle and set to work. "I'll never understand why a pretty young girl like yourself would want to get hammered for a living. Mess up what God gave you when you could be doing something safer."

Teeth knitting together, she resisted the urge to shove her foot up his 'well-meaning ass' and concentrated instead on the hard bite of the hook sliding through her skin and the whispering tug of the sutures. And found the pain oddly comforting, she counted herself through each one, releasing a breath with each knot and sucking a fresh hiss with each loop.

"There," he said, ten stitches later and pleased with the end result. "That'll do. Rotate with hot and cold compresses on the shoulder, stretch it out carefully tomorrow and if there's any sharp pains stop immediately and have Asher call me back in. The eye will go down on its own and as for the stitches you'll have to keep them dry for a couple of days. So no shower, face masks."

"What about training?"

"Not if you're going to sweat, no. Any stress or strain on the stitches they could pop and you'll be back at square one. Do as I say and they'll dissolve nicely in a week." Collecting his gear, the medic removed his gloves and scraped a hand over his thinning cap of sandy blonde hair. "Listen, my daughter heard about your fight next month and is a big fan. She'll never forgive me if I leave here without having you autograph something."

"Sure. What's her name?"

"Sonia Psotka." A glow of fatherly pride flushed his doughy cheeks. "She's ten."

"Then I think we should make it extra special." Reaching across the examination table, Shayne gathered her shirt and held it up. White with a scrawling, graffiti type design and blingy studs spelling out her name. Taking the marker Asher brought over, she uncapped it with her teeth, spread it out on the pad and stretch the material enough for her signature to flow in large, looping script.

Done, she handed it over.

"Thank you so much. She'll love this," he said, folding it carefully. "But I didn't expect you to give up an expensive shirt. Sonia'd be happy with a scrap of paper."

"Don't worry." She waved his concern aside. "Cost me twenty bucks and I've got a dozen just like it. Tell your daughter I said hi, and I hope she enjoys the fight. I'll try and make her proud."

As Asher led the medic out into the hall to discuss insurance payment and processing, Rita scooted over with a knowing smirk.

"Isn't that the two-hundred-dollar custom shirt you picked up during our shopping trip last week?"

Shayne shrugged her good shoulder. "I'll get another one."

"Yes, well..." Rita faded into an awkward lapse of silence as she adjusted her hold on her purse, anchoring it against her side. "Think about what I said. Your brother is going to need a strong show of support if he's going to pull through this ascension cleanly. Asking you to step back may sound unreasonable right now, but I know if the shoe was on the other foot—he'd do it for you without hesitation." Almost colliding with Asher on the way out, he shut the door behind him, a wide grin on his face.

"So I got a call from the production team at UFC. Buzz is spreading, Melo. Spreading fast, as they'd hoped. We're so close with this one. This is your breakout moment; I can feel it." Dragging a chair in front of Shayne, Asher sat down and cupped her knees in his hands. Thumbs skimming over the curved caps. "Why don't you look more excited?"

Lips pursed, Shayne released a steady breath. "I am. Just been a long day."

His dark eyes darkened further with a keen depth of perception that had made him a force to be reckoned with in the ring. "I don't know what to say, Shayne, but if you can't get your head in the game, tell me now so I can pull you out. Otherwise you'll get hurt. Anything less than one hundred and ten percent focus is dangerous." Rising he set his hands on her shoulders, careful not to weight too heavy on her injured one. "I want this for you—you deserve this, but I won't send you in there if you're not mentally ready."

Shayne swallowed around the lump in her throat, and the urge to cry. "I'm in it. I'll be fine."

https://youtu.be/9bGo45Ilmec