Music throbbed, lights strobed—illuminating the bobbing sway of a dense crowd packed into the massive Washington nightclub. Shayne stood at the turntable, head cocked and headphones half on, her hands slipping over the table, twisting knobs and flicking switches—their queen.

The crowd cheered, arms tossed in the air, as the beat dropped with a bone deep pulse that shook the floor, rattled the walls.

Smoke machines blasted, pouring a slithering cloud at their feet. It spread around them. Rising. Swallowing the mob whole in a filmy haze.

Smoke. Fire.

The ringing cheers so similar to screams. Her hand trembled on the table, but the crowd—her fans—barely noticed the unintended skip.

Closing her eyes, Shayne tried not to think about it—the blood curdling fear of hearing the words plane crash and everyone on board killed except one. Her brother, the sole survivor of the tarmac explosion. Burned and battered. The last few weeks had been a difficult slog of surgeries and recovery.

Shayne finished her set to the roar of praise and swept off the soundstage. Tucked in the staff room, she pressed her hands over her ringing ears and sucked in slow, deep breaths, willing her heart beat to ease.

Trembling, she plucked out a prescription bottle and cracked open the lid, palming a tiny little pill and slipped it under her tongue.

"Hey." The door pushed open behind her and Sara, a slender Latina with ink black hair dyed in a blue ombre, slid inside. "You alright?"

"Fine." Shayne smiled, not entirely forced. The Ativan was sliding into her system, pushing away the rise of anxiety and steadying the beat of her heart.

"You kinda flew off the stage tonight. Not like you." She advanced, her movements slow, sensual and prowling. The glimmer of concern in her wide, brown eyes echoed with a thread of desire.

Easing back against the breakroom table, Shayne reached for her hand, tugging her forward. The full shape of Sara's mouth a pleasing temptation. "I said," her head dipped, skimming a breath and her lips across Sara's neck, "I am fine."

Sara hummed a throaty purr, and a sigh as Shayne's teeth followed the path of her lips. "Good. Had me worried."

Shayne's head popped up and she met that hungry, warm gaze. Dammit. "Don't do that."

"What?" Sara's hands slid over her hips, her waist, circling the smooth line of skin exposed in between pants and shirt.

"Worry about me." Shayne let her go, eased her back and moved away from the table. Plucking her battered leather jacket off the wall, she shrugged it on.

"Where are you going?"

Searching the pockets, Shayne found a fat, round sucker, peeled off the wrapper and stuck it in her mouth. "Don't do that either."

Confusion rippled across Sara's striking face, like light flashing across choppy waters. "I don't get you, Shayne. You pull me forward, you push me away. We've been doing this dance for weeks and I don't know the steps." Sara shoved her hands in her back pockets, faux leather that molded to shapely legs. Slung low, they gave a teasing glimpse of a sexy tattoo that wound from hip to ankle. "I don't know what to do with you."

Shayne almost laughed, and would've if it were anyone else. Me neither. And because she was right, and dammit—this wasn't Sara's fault—Shayne looped an arm around her shoulders, pressed a kiss to her brow.

A mark of friendship. A door she should've never opened in the first place.

"You can do better than me, Sara. Much better."

Sara's head dropped to her shoulder, with a couple tears splashing against Shayne's neck. She held her a minute, absorbing her grief, accepting the responsibility of it, until Sara found the strength to step away, her eyes clear and face steady. The only sign of her emotions captured in a flush of redness in her cheeks.

"Play with fire and you're gonna get burned, right?" Her smile was soft, gentle, as she cupped a hand behind Shayne's neck and dragged her down for a quick, easy kiss. A goodbye of her own, and a grace Shayne allowed. "See you next week."

She waited a moment, hating that she'd wounded Sara, a pure, trusting soul, but it was better she walk away now, before they got tangled up in more than bed sheets. She was always clear up front, no feelings, no strings, but sex was complicated mess of both.

"Take it easy, kid." Shayne cast a wink over her shoulder and slipped out into the hall.

In the fifteen minutes she'd spent tucked in the back breakout room the club had emptied out. Bouncers loitered around the bar, following the girls with their tills to the cash out room while a cleaning crew worked around the large auditorium. Sweeping up broken glass, mopping up booze and collecting empty bottles and glasses.

Shayne tossed out waves and goodbye's as she went, and pulled out her slender shades as she pushed out the back door and hit the narrow alley. The sky was glowing shade of purple and pink. The colour of dawn and an awakening city.

Five am.

Most clubs and bars in the city shut down after two, Vybz was one of the few after hour spots in DC for the late night crowd, and since Shayne had taken on the docket as resident DJ, business had been booming.

When she'd decided to set down temporary lodgings in Washington to keep close to Marco, finding a spot to spin at wasn't hard to come by. She'd developed a strong following over the years and the owner, Ted, had begged her more than once to consider making this a permanent thing. But DJing was only ever meant to be a side gig to pay the bills while she poured her sweat and blood on the mat, fighting her way into the ring.

Barely six weeks ago, she'd finally clawed her way into UFC when disaster struck. She tried not to think about all the fights that had been slung her way, and all the offers that she had to turn down. Much to Asher's shock and dismay, though he understood her decision to stay in Washington.

Things had cooled down drastically in the last three weeks. Because that was the nature of life in the spotlight—the moment it was on you, you had to fight to keep it, but Shayne had had no choice but to let it slip away, knowing she might never get it back.

Tossing out an arm, she flagged down a cab and shot into the back seat, quick enough that the few club stragglers on the sidewalk didn't notice until she was already shooting down the street.

"George Washington University Hospital," she instructed, dragging her shades over her eyes and rolled her head back. She'd fallen half asleep by the time the cab whipped up the entrance ramp, stopping outside the center for trauma and critical care.

Swiping her credit card for the fifteen dollar fare, Shayne wove through the trauma wait room, rounded the nursing station with a three finger salute and down the corridor to the elevator bank. God, she could find her way to her brother's room with eyes closed. They changed him every few days, a different room on a different floor, but it didn't hinder her feet from finding him.

In the ensuing weeks since his accident, many journalists and press had attempted to slip into the hospital to capture pictures of him for the papers.

One had even succeeded, when he was fresh off the operating table, unconscious and covered in bandages with a million machine wires running from his body. Saying the Golden Prince was now the Beast of Spain.

She'd marched straight into that douchebro's office and knocked the sonofabitch on his ass.

Which only led to more press and more problems, but Shayne didn't give a single, solitary fuck. Bastard deserved far worse than a black eye. No one messed with her family, and Marco was the only family she had left.

Aside from the Sisterhood.

She struck the door with her knuckles, knocking with a series of sharp raps before thrusting it open. Marco sat in the bed, head low and didn't lift it as she entered. He knew it was her by the signature knock, a thing they'd done since childhood.

"Hey, loser." She booted the door shut, and set her hands on her hips. "How's it going?"

The room was naked—greyish white on pale blue. All washed out and faded. Her brother had insisted on no flowers or anything else to brighten up the space, despite Cait trying every trick in her arsenal to bring her around to pops of colour. But it was a private room at least.

With a TV he always seemed to have off.

So, Shayne strode over to it, punched the power button and picked up the neglected remote. "Get any porn on this thing?"

Marco's head swivelled around, a mild look of shock on his face. Good, that got his attention.

"What are you doing here?"

Shayne flicked through the options, and settled on one of the premium channels. HBO currently streaming season six of Game of Thrones. "There we go. Blood, boobs and dragons. All of my favorite things." She flashed him a wicked grin. One that the old Marco would've returned. But his new Marco, this empty, emotionless, sullen stranger only watched her with flat eyes.

"What are you doing here?"

"Doc asked me to come in," she said, lowering to the edge of the bed so they were face to face on opposite sides. "Something about next steps."

Marco huffed a frustrated breath. "Next steps."

Always punctual, Doctor Louise Spencer walked in. A tall, slim, middle-aged blonde who had a penchant for flat shoes and wearing her hair in a tight bun. She smiled thinly at Shayne, then linked her hands before her, as she stood in the center of the room.

"Hello, Marco. How are you feeling today?"

"Same as every day. Shit."

Louise tucked her chin to her chest with a sigh. "I know the last few months have been hard on you. Prolonged hospital stays are never pleasant." Her chin lifted. "You'll be happy to know that you'll be clear to leave the hospital by the end of the week."

Shayne straightened on the foot of the bed. "For real?"

Louise nodded. "Our recent tests have exceeded all expectations. The syntho-skin treatment has reduced likelihood of visible scarring by more than seventy-five percent. You'll need to continue wearing the compression bandages overnight, and your medication, to prevent possible infection, but otherwise, you're almost as good as new."

His body, perhaps. His mind was a different matter, but Shayne withheld the remark. "So, he can go home to Spain?"

Louise met Shayne's gaze. "No. Not quite. We'll need see him intermittently for at least the next three months. But there's no need for him to remain on Hospital grounds. There's a secondary clinic that's part of the study in Toronto. I've spoken to my colleague and he's happy to continue Marco's treatment there. My understanding is you have family in Toronto?"

"Yeah," Shayne answered before Marco could disagree.

"Wonderful. Then I will transfer your brother's file and paperwork while you finalize any arrangements for his housing on your end."

"You hear that?" Shayne slapped a hand on Marco's thigh, the uninjured one, and nudged him hopefully. "Three more months and then you get to finally slap that crown on your head where it belongs."

Marco pulled away from her reach and turned a cold shoulder. "I'm not going back."

Shayne couldn't contain the scoffing laugh, or the chill that shocked through her body at his hollow tone. "Bullsh!t. You don't mean that."

"The country can get on without me."

No. No this wasn't right. Sure, he'd been surly and short on words the last six weeks, but the brother she knew would never turn his back on his country, or duty. He loved Spain, the people and the history. For as long as she could recall, he'd always aspired for greatness. To be worthy of the mantle and the weight of the crown they both knew was coming his way.

Their uncle had held the throne in the face of Marco's near death experience, but they were fast approaching his final days. The illness, now public knowledge, had pushed him into bed last week where he remained with his wife and children by his side.

Marco had to return to Spain. He just had to.

Shayne ran her tongue along the edge of her teeth. "Doc, can I have minute alone with my brother?"

"Sure. You can come by my office when you're done. We'll talk more in private. And he should really reconsider...talking to someone," Louise added under her breath as Shayne followed her to the door. "We've done what we can for his body. Someone needs to help heal his mind."

Shayne couldn't find her voice as Louise slipped out into the hall, and shut the door behind her.

Louise was right. She'd suggested psychiatric treatment in the early days as well; a suggestion he'd vehemently refused, and admittedly, Shayne hadn't pressed the issue. He was alive, and sure—they were both reeling from the loss of their parents—but he was the Golden Prince. Spain's hope for a future. His hopes and dreams were still within grasp—and he was going to let it all slip away?

Like hell.

She took a moment, a single, bracing moment, before she swung around. No longer his little sister, but a fighter about to take on an opponent. "What the hell is the matter with you?"

"Shayne, I'm not in the mood for this."

"No," she crossed the room, rounded the bed and faced him. "I've babied you long enough. You've had me tip-toeing and dancing on egg shells for so long they've turned to dust, Marco. Enough. You're going to Toronto."

"Shayne."

"You're going to finish your treatment, and in three months, you're going back to Spain, even if I have to drag you back there myself. Kicking and screaming the entire way, so be it."

Marco lifted blue eyes, piercing in a gaunt face covered in a gold scruff of beard. His hair, limp and greasy. He'd stopped shaving. Stopped caring. Barely ate his meals unless someone was there almost shoving the spoon in his mouth.

Shayne blinked away tears. No. No crying. Not now and not in front of him. Tears were a weak, useless weapon meant to guilt and manipulate. Those were not her weapons.

"Tio's dead in a week, maybe two. If I'm not there to claim the throne, it's all for nothing anyway. And you heard the Doc. Long distance travel is out of the question." He shrugged his shoulders, an unconscious gesture that had a flash of pain roll across his face. "It's pointless," he groaned. "I'm not good to anybody like this. Least of all an entire country."

Shayne's mind whirled, a spinning dance of thoughts and emotions. "Then I'll go."

His chin jerked up, surprise and disbelief had his mouth falling open. "Excuse me?"

"I said I'll go. I'll be there to stand in as interim until you complete your treatment in Toronto. Once you get the all clear, you come back and that's it. Problem solved. You get to be king and I return to the ring. It's a win-win."

"Shayne..." he swiped a hand through lank, dull blonde hair. A shade of honey brown he'd acquired from their mother. "You don't have to do this."

"I don't know what else to do, Marco." She sank to her haunches, took his uninjured hand in hers and held on tight. "I come in here almost every single day and watch as another piece of you wastes away. I can't watch it anymore. And I can't let you give up the one thing that mattered most in your life. Maybe it doesn't feel like it now, but in a few months—you'd regret it. Let me do this for you."

"Don't abandon your dreams on my account. I'm not worth it."

"You're my brother. You're worth everything I have and more. I'll do this because I love you, and you'll agree to this because you love me."

He stared at her, long and hard, and finally she saw it—the hard mask slipped away so a fragment of her brother slipped through. "I don't know who I am anymore, Shayne." His lips pressed into a thin line as two tears slipped and ran in a hot line down his face. Disappearing into the scruff on his cheeks and reappearing at the edge of his chin. It felt endless, but soon he nodded, a light bob before he said, "okay."

Shayne almost sobbed in relief. A single word, but it was all she needed to know that all hope wasn't lost. She would hold on to that glimmer, and the small, barest flicker of hope it represented, that her brother was still in there somewhere. Amidst the darkness of his grief and depression, healing and mending the unseen tears of his heart and soul. Reshaping him back into a man, altered and changed, but whole. That's all she could ask for at this stage.

She'd worry about the rest, later.

"You look like you haven't slept yet," he murmured, skimming a thumb across her brow, pushing away her short fringe of hair from her eyes.

"Life of a DJ.

Marco's grip tightened in hers. "You hungry?"

And that, dammit, almost did her in. "Starved."

"There's a diner close by. Doubt I can sneak out, but I'm sure they deliver."

"Pancakes and coffee?"

"And bacon. Lots of bacon."

Shayne laughed, dashing stray tears with the back of her hand. "Coming right up." She shot to her feet, but Marco's fingers remained twined with hers, not quite ready to let her go.

"You think you have what it takes to handle the Duchess?" he asked as she dug out her cell from her jacket pocket to call the diner.

Her lips skewed to the side in a devious smirk as she swiped a thumb across the screen. "Leave the old cow to me."

**AN**

Here we are. Sorry for the delay. Work life sucks and it's been busy trying to get everything wrapped up before heading out to RT in Atlanta this coming Tuesday. I can't wait. So excited.

So, I hope you enjoyed getting reacquainted with Shayne and Marco. Poor guy is a mess. Def a far cry from the Golden Prince we know and love and I think we all know where he's going to wind up while staying in Toronto - LOL - but what about the Duchess? Can you imagine her reaction when Shayne pops up in Spain?

Draaaaaaaamaaaaaaaa!

Also, I posted a clip of "Shayne" in the club, doing her thang like the talented smokeshow that she is.

I knew Ruby Rose was the perfect Shayne when I'd started drafting the Sisterhood for my fighter by day DJ by night bad girl rebel, and was stunned to discover that she was also a well-known DJ, which is a crazy, awesome coincidence.

So, hope you guys enjoy this chapter, and can you guess who is coming up next??? :)