Page 200 of The Nanny and the Beefcake
But no, that’s not all the bastard had gotten.
Along with a video sure to skew the odds of the fight, the Snake had delivered something far worse than the pain of a bruised kidney, a black eye, or the sting of another embarrassing video.
The same sickening sensation that left him a heap on the bathroom floor before his last fight returned.
And it had a name.
Doubt.
Five letters.
One syllable.
And it seeped into every cell in his body.
“Have fun at the party. Who needs training when you can wear party hats and play Pin the Tail on the Donkey? That’s got to be Erasmus’s favorite.” Silas clucked as his crew barked out the happy birthday song, clowning and laughing at his expense.
Libby gathered their bags and took his hand. “Let’s go, please.”
“Call me, Libby Lamb,” Silas crooned. “I’ll make some time for you to tickle my chakras. And then you can see what it’s like to be with a real winner.”
“Ignore him,” she whispered, tightening her grip on him as she dragged him through the sliding glass doors and ushered him into a large SUV.
“What was that, Erasmus?” Briggs asked, glancing over his shoulder from the front seat. The man had turned as white as a ghost.
Dammit! He could see the ticker, numbers flashing, counting the video views wherever the hell Silas’s minions had posted the footage of their skirmish. It would make sense that Briggs would keep track of the Snake’s posts.
He shook his head, unable to respond. His thoughts rattled through his brain, knocking into the memories he’d pushed away.
Mere’s cold, lifeless body.
Her muted, dead aquamarine eyes.
The sheet draped over her, and Sebastian crying out for his mum.
Breathe, just breathe.
“How do you know what happened?” Libby asked Briggs as the man shifted the SUV into drive.
“I saw it. The world saw it. The whole thing was livestreamed,” his agent answered, holding up his mobile.
Just like he thought, another viral video.
And remarkably, that was the least of his worries.
A tiff on social media was one thing.
Losing in the ring with a billion people watching would wreck him, would ruin him. A loss would be the ultimate insult to Mere’s memory.
He swallowed past the lump in his throat. He was so bloody sure he was on the right path—so confident that his time with Libby doing Pun-chi yoga was time well spent. He’d convinced himself that with her by his side, he couldn’t lose.
He was wrong.
He loved her—he did—but he had to get back to doing what made him a champion.
He cradled his head in his hands, then pressed the swollen skin below his left eye. Stars flashed against his closed eyelid as shooting pain tormented his face. But he didn’t move his hand, didn’t let up the pressure. He needed to feel it, needed to allow the pain to consume him and bury his failure beneath a mountain of anguish. Only the searing pain could stop the clawing doubt from taking over his mind.
Briggs and Libby spoke in hushed tones, but he zoned them out.
