Reining Devotion: A Chaotic Rein novel

by Jenner, Haley

  I look up slowly.

  “What if our wants or needs differ?” I question.

  That is, what if he wants to save his cunt of a wife and I want to slit her throat.

  “Trust me, my ending for Sarah mirrors yours.”

  I sit up straighter. “I’m not your bitch.”

  He laughs. “I can pay people to take on that role. I don’t need a bitch, I need an equal.”

  He pours us each another whiskey, lifting his glass in salute. I retrieve mine, tapping it against his while meeting his eyes, looking for any hint he’s about to double-cross me. I find none.

  We tip back our glasses, swallowing the contents whole.

  “If we’re working together now, I need help finding someone. Someone who clearly doesn’t want to be found.”

  He nods. “Of course.”

  “This is strictly between you and me. Parker can never know, am I understood?”

  “Crystal,” he murmurs, waiting patiently as I tell him my story.

  Chapter Eleven

  Camryn

  “This is a stupid idea,” I murmur to myself, tapping the button of the elevator button incessantly..

  “The dumbest idea I’ve ever had,” I muse, the soft sound of the bell indicating the doors are about to close like an electric shock directly at my heart.

  “I’m such a loser,” I groan.

  I turn around, my reflection staring back at me from the back wall of the elevator in judgment. “He’ll think I’m crazier than Codi on Christmas.”

  The doors open and I consider letting them close without moving. Ride it back down to ground level and pretend I’d never even stepped into the building.

  Easy. This never happened.

  I take a tentative step out, shifting nervously on the threshold of the elevator until it beeps in irritation. The sound startles me forward and I look into the hallway, half expecting him to be waiting to send me away.

  One deep breath and I push myself forward. One foot in front of the other, step after step until I’m standing outside his door. It looks normal enough, not the burning door of Hell like I had envisaged. Engulfed in flames, ready to welcome me into the inferno.

  I knock before I can talk myself out of it.

  Like with everything that Rocco Shay does, the door flies open with force. His big body bristling with the constant irritability that sits on his person like an untouchable aura.

  Fuck off, it screams.

  He stands on the threshold of his home, staring at me in confusion. “Rein,” he greets cautiously after a loaded second.

  “Shay.”

  We stand like that for five quickly drawn breaths. Enough time for my gaze to drink him in grudgingly. My eyes eager to eat up everything before me. The way his shirt stretches invitingly over his broad chest. The muscles of his arms, thick, even in rest. The narrowed lines of his hips. The well-groomed beard that hides his scowl. The wolf-like eyes that look down on everyone like a casualty waiting to happen. All the while, my brain rolls its metaphorical eyes, calling me out on my foolishness.

  My chest tightens in error, this was a mistake. I know it. I shouldn’t have come. But, just as I’m about to turn and walk away without an explanation, he lets his gaze fall down to my hand, candy-appled boxing gloves held tightly in my grasp.

  “Somethin’ wrong with them?” he asks.

  My head shakes side-to-side, quick movements that scream out I’m nervous. “No.” I clear my throat.

  “You don’t want them?” He growls, his face twisting unhappily.

  “No,” I rush out. “I mean yes. Yes, I want them.”

  Eyes narrowed on my face, I watch the deep swallow of his throat, the dense movement of his Adam’s apple up and down. “Beauty,” he sighs. “I get you don’t like me and you think I’m some kind of fucking demon, but I can’t read minds. So, either tell me what you need or I got better things to do than watch your eyes shoot daggers at me.”

  “Teach me to fight,” I mumble hurriedly, the words twisting together in an incoherent mumble of drivel.

  His blonde eyebrows reach for his hairline. “Sorry?”

  “Please,” I add as an afterthought. “Please teach me how to fight.”

  His head shakes and I feel my heart drop to my stomach.

  “There’s places you can go for that. Trainers who will be able to show you.”

  I blink in disappointment. “I don’t want the basics, Rocco,” I plead. “I don’t want to spend months learning stance and blocks. I want to fight. I want to ball up this festering anger that weighs heavily in my gut and expel it. I want to feel my fury in every punch.”

  His characteristic look of boredom and venom gives way to understanding. He hates that, feeling that connection with me. I know it, because I feel it too.

  “I know you don’t want to understand me. I don’t want to understand you either. But there’s something inside of you that can communicate with the demon within me.”

  “No.”

  I close my eyes.

  “I saved your life,” I guilt. “It’s the least you can do.”

  That makes him smile, the gesture almost hidden by the beard hiding the bottom half of his face. “Fuck, Rein. I never asked you to do that.”

  “But Parker did. I did him a solid. Don’t make me use him to make you do one for me.”

  His smile grows. “Parker would never let me teach you to fight. You’re fucking crazy if you think he would.”

  “You sure about that?” I test. “He and Codi want us to get along. They’d do just about anything to repair what’s broken here.”

  I watch his smile drop away, and I replace it with one of my own.

  “Willing to gamble on a maybe?” I tease. “Or we could continue to hate one another comfortably and this would be our own secret. No one would know.”

  The clock in his loft ticks by slowly, exaggerating the silence swirling around us.

  “Once a week for a month,” he concedes unhappily.

  “Twice a week for four,” I combat.

  “You’re fucking crazy,” he gripes. “Once a week for two.”

  “Twice a week for four.”

  He looks at me like I’ve lost it. “Negotiation requires compromise.”

  I shrug. “I’m not negotiating.”

  “Twice a week for three.”

  I stretch my hand toward him. “Deal.”

  He takes it reluctantly, his grip tight. “If I’m training you, cut down on the sugar.”

  I laugh. “Fuck no. Sugar loves me in a way no one else ever will. I will not abandon him.”

  “Cut it down. It ain’t good for you.”

  I push past him into the loft.

  “Woah.” He grabs my bicep. “What do you think you’re doin’?”

  I glance into his loft and then back to his big hand, wrapped easily around my arm. “I’m here for my first training session and I don’t care what anyone says, anything that good can’t be bad for you.”

  “I’m busy,” he says slowly.

  “Doing what?” I roll my eyes.

  “Not training you.”

  I shrug my arm out of his grasp. “You’re doing nothing but plotting the demise of the world. May as well make yourself useful.”

  He lets me move into his home. “Most people are more cautious around me.”

  I lift a single brow. “You gonna kill me? Hurt me?”

  “Maybe,” he grumbles.

  “Yeah, right. I don’t expect you to be nice to me,” I tell him honestly. “Quite frankly, you being nice to me would frighten me.”

  “Don’t speak while you’re here,” he warns. “I won’t let you slack. You’ll likely vomit the first few times we train.”

  “And you think sugar is bad for me. Where’s your gym?”

  He points toward the back of his loft. “Let me change. Don’t snoop and don’t fucking touch anything.”

  I turn on my heel, moving toward the space he indicated.

  The loft
is impeccable; sterile in its cleanliness. The smell of bleach and disinfectant decaying my nasal cavity by the second. Not a single item is out of place. It’s austere. No homely touches decorate the walls, save one single photo on the mantel. A worn image of him, Parker, and Lila.

  I glance back to where he disappeared to, considering moving closer to it, to take a better look. But he warned me not to snoop.

  I’m stupid enough to request Rocco Shay unleash the demons within me, best not destroy our deal before its even started.

  I walk toward the home gym leisurely. Tucked at the very back of the loft, it’s impressive. A ceiling to floor mirror is tacked along the wall, two benches, and limitless weights packed neatly into their place. A bright red punching bag hangs from the ceiling at the side, weathered and worn, giving the impression it’s ridden out many a Rocco storm over its lifetime.

  His heavy footfalls alert me to his approach and I watch him in the giant mirror. Basketball shorts sitting comfortably on his defined hips, torso and chest completely naked of clothing. He bristles with muscle. The protrusive line of his lower abdomen showy enough to make me stare. The golden tan of his skin stretches purposely over his obvious strength. Molding to every muscle like latex, exposing every curve and sinewy bulge.

  Camryn Rein. My dirty, little beauty.

  Not today, Satanous libido. Off you fuck, to the land of over-my-own-dead-body.

  A burst of fire is drawn over his heart, the delicately designed flames climbing diagonally up his chest to wrap along the right side of his neck. They finish just under the cut line of his jaw, dancing every time he swallows.

  Rocco Shay oozes threat, he bleeds power and anyone stupid enough to deny that can sign their one-way ticket to his wrath.

  “Problem with clothing?” I test.

  He takes a step closer. “Anything that constricts you is working against you. That includes this,” he points to his head, “this,” he taps his heart, “as well as physical restrictions like clothing and lack of training.”

  “Well if you expect me to remove my shirt…”

  “I’m pretty sure I asked you not to speak,” he groans impatiently. “Your boobs are of no interest to me,” he insults. “They’re another restriction that will inhibit your ability to move as effectively as you need to. Before our next session, invest in a correctly fitted sports bra.”

  I frown. “Please stop talking about my boobs,” I mutter.

  “Pleasure. Now—” He steps closer, eyes tracking my body up and down in objectivity. “You shit-canned stance, but it’s crucial. If your feet aren’t placed correctly, you can trust you’ll go down like a sack of shit. But if you’re well balanced… you’re much harder to knock down. You right or left handed?”

  “Left,” I answer.

  “Evil. I knew it,” he teases. “Right shoulder facing me,” he instructs. “Feet shoulder-width apart.”

  He watches me move into position, one swift nod of his chin in acknowledgment when I’ve got it right.

  “Right foot pointed at me. Bend your knees.”

  He kicks at my right foot gently to move it where he wants it. “Not so much with the bend, find your comfort. Good, girl.”

  Pussy’s about to cry for me, Rein.

  Good God. I shake my head, expelling the alluringly unwelcome thoughts from my brain cavity.

  My eyes on my feet, he clicks his fingers in front of my face, forcing my gaze upward. “Eyes always up, understand?”

  I nod.

  “Tuck your chin in. Not so much.” He smirks. “There. Perfect.”

  So fucking beautiful.

  I roll my shoulders.

  “Loose fists.” He lifts my hands, watching them ball into fists. “Left hand by your chin.” He pushes it into position, holding it there a second to make certain I have it. “Right hand in front of your face to protect the money.”

  Rocco takes a step back, assessing my form. “Feel good?”

  “A little stiff,” I admit.

  He shrugs. “Let’s hope it never feels too comfortable.”

  He says it more to himself than to me, and I feel ill at the hint of vulnerability in his tone.

  I’m surprised at the patience in his voice as he directs me. I half expected him to set me up in front of a YouTube tutorial and be done with it. Convinced he’d shun me or ridicule me. Instead, he’s almost calm, almost kind, definitely tolerant.

  It’s a side of him Parker has always spoken of, one I couldn’t believe would exist.

  “Hold the stance,” he directs, moving away to the back corner of the room.

  I watch his retreat in the large mirror. The muscles in his back stretch and pull with every movement he makes. I knew he was ripped, but the extent at how ripped has shocked me. I’d bet he has next to zero body fat percentage.

  “Do you have cheat days?” I find myself asking his reflection.

  His large shoulders lift. “I don’t classify them as cheat days. If I feel like eating pizza, I eat pizza. I just make sure I expend more energy working out that day.”

  Moving back toward me, his eyes on mine in the mirror, he shoves his hand into some form of flattened gloves.

  “Are we going to fight?”

  That makes him laugh, a thick roll of rough laughter skating along my skin in a way I shouldn’t want a repeat of.

  “Think you could take me, Rein?”

  “I hate you enough to lose myself, maybe kill you,” I offer.

  “Which means I’d own you. Don’t let emotion cloud what you know, it only helps your opponent defeat you. They’re punching pads,” he answers my earlier question. “It’s your lucky day, oh-beautiful-enemy-of-mine, you get to hit me.”

  I roll my eyes. “I hardly call punching a padded glove sitting on your hand hitting you.”

  “Best you’re gonna get.” He shifts his stance in front of me, solidifying his footing.

  I wait for instruction, holding my position.

  “Elbows in,” he says. “Punch with your right hand first, but rotate your arm as you do.” He demonstrates slowly, his arm sliding forward, rotating slightly as it nears me.

  I wait for him to move it back, punching pads held up at the ready.

  “Your turn.” He nods.

  I let my arm fire out, the loud crack of my glove smacking against his.

  It’s a nice sound. A strong sound. One that ignites a flame inside of my stomach. A tiny fire that burns like a soft ember, begging to be stoked, to be laced with gasoline to overtake my entire self.

  “Keep your eyes up,” Rocco admonishes gently. “Don’t look at your feet or your arm. Forward.”

  I swallow, pulling my arm back to jab it forward once again.

  “Better,” he encourages. “But remember to rotate your arm.”

  A small smile dances at the corner of his mouth whenever I get it right. A pride that hits him, his face lighting up with accomplishment and conceit.

  He’s building a warrior, and it burns a similar fire inside of him like that one that burns in me.

  He spends two hours with me; correcting my technique, praising my form, the fist of my glove cracking against his punching pad. My body is covered in sweat, my breath labored, and if I’m honest, like he promised, on the verge of vomiting. But I feel alive. I feel energized and capable and I can’t remember the last time I truly felt like this.

  All the while, Rocco’s barely broken a sweat.

  “Drink plenty of water, rest your muscles and make sure you stretch.” He speaks as I remove my gloves, hands to his defined hips, authority dripping from his tone.

  “Thursday work for you?”

  He nods. “I’ll text you a time once I’ve checked my other commitments.”

  “Try not to get killed or injured in between now and then,” I bite out teasingly. “This was good. I feel good. I don’t want to have to stop.”

  “Obviously didn’t work you hard enough,” he mocks me.

  I fight an eye roll.

  “Yo
u gotta find a purpose for the fight, Camryn.” He steps in my path, stopping me from leaving. “It can’t be revenge or vengeance. You gotta find something for you.”

  I let his words sink in.

  “What if revenge and vengeance are for me?”

  “It’s too easy to fall down a rabbit hole of hate.” He shakes his head. “Fuckin’ trust me on that. Find something meaningful for you.” He points a finger at my chest. “Let fighting be positive. You’ll get more out of it.”

  “What do you fight for?” I test. “Fun.”

  He looks at me for a beat, a single second in time where he lets his granite walls fall away to show me the pain in his soul.

  “Freedom,” he finally speaks.

  He turns away, walking to pack away his things. “See you Thursday,” he dismisses me.

  I leave his apartment with a heavy ache in my chest. I positioned myself on a path to heal myself, to find a peace I’ve decided I’m ready to find. Never in my wildest imagination was I expecting to find gratitude and sympathy in my heart for Rocco Shay.

  Chapter Twelve

  Rocco

  “Told you I didn’t work you hard enough last time.” I smirk, watching her dry retch into a small metal bucket by the punching bag.

  Nothing like bonding over the sound of another person emptying the contents of their stomach as you watch on in eager entertainment.

  Standing, Camryn flips me off, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her chest rises and falls like a balloon inflating only to deflate a second later.

  “Do a hundred skip jumps” —I toss the skipping rope her way— “then we’ll use the punching pads again.”

  Her eyes watch the rope fly in her direction, her body not moving an inch as it falls at her feet. “Working on not dying right now,” she mutters. “Give a girl a second. I need water.”

  I saunter off without another word, retrieving two bottles of cold water from my fridge.

  She’s sitting on a workout bench when I approach, one knee bent, chin rested upon it as she chews her thumbnail in thought.

  “I found my word,” she tells me. “My focus word.” She takes the bottle from me with a thankful smile.