71. Aleksandr
71
ALEKSANDR
Even in the heat of a humid Yorkfield summer, my knee ached, a constant reminder of everything I’d lost—everything that had been taken from me. The elite of Yorkfield danced around me, beautiful and untouchable, politicians mingling with the mafia, scions of business rubbing elbows with musicians and sports stars.
And hockey coaches like me.
I smiled ruefully as the bride whirled around the dance floor, the train of her dress elegantly draped over her arm as one of her husbands drew a joyful laugh out of her. Love shone out of their eyes, even as one husband teasingly stole her from another.
Young love.
I scoffed. Angelo Costa and Valentin Rochefort were as old as me, but the affection and tenderness shining out of their eyes transformed them into youths.
Envy, insidious and ugly, wound through me. Sixteen years after an injury cost me my NHL career and left me rotting on the bench, I’d transformed Yorkfield U’s struggling hockey team into a championship-winning program, turning the spoiled whelps they handed me as freshmen into top draft picks by the time they graduated. Winning was everything, had been everything, but faced with the disgustingly sentimental love of the Costa polycule, I found myself wondering if perhaps there was more.
Ana Costa, apparently, was a fan of mine. She said she couldn’t imagine getting married without me there. We’d never spoken, but I let the lie stand without comment. Otherwise, I’d have to admit I knew the real reason she’d invited me—Dmitri Lebedev.
Cousin.
Brother-in-arms.
Betrayer.
Bratva.
I’d successfully ignored his attempts at reconciliation for ten years but couldn’t ignore an invitation from one of the ruling mafia families in Yorkfield.
Dmitri’s gaze fell upon me, an icy blue that reminded me of our shared childhood in Russia. Before immigrating. Before the NHL. Before losing everything, only for him to snatch my revenge away from me unless I joined him in the bratva.
I refused to acknowledge him, instead letting my gaze wander over the festivities.
A flash of red hair caught my eye, a curly braid hanging long as a woman with hips that begged for me to dig my fingers into them quietly refreshed the glasses behind the bar. I couldn’t see her face, but I didn’t need to. I wanted her.
A quick fuck in a closet wouldn’t even come close to scratching my itch for tying a woman up and edging her, teaching her how beautiful submission could be, and yet, I couldn’t tear my gaze away.
She bent over, and Christ, her pants molded to the round shape of her ass, begging me to drop to my knees and mark the soft flesh with my teeth.
“Coach Novikov?” a sweet voice said beside me.
“Ana,” I said with a smile, pushing my chair back so I could greet the bride, and holding back my curse as she blocked the redhead from my view. “Congratulations,” I murmured, air kissing her cheeks as her husbands looked on.
Her husbands might be brutal, violent, thugs, but I’d grown up in the bratva and cut my teeth in the NHL. They didn’t intimidate me.
“Thank you for coming,” Ana said, her green eyes bright and her cheeks flushed, a picture of new love.
God, I envied her. And them. But love like theirs wasn’t my future, not now, not ever. That would require liking people. Meeting people. A woman who accepted my kinks and my need for control. A relationship of longer than a few nights. I might deride the puck bunnies my players fucked, but I wasn’t looking for anything permanent either.
A flash of red caught my attention again. Fuck, I had to know who that woman was.
One of the bartenders hollered at her, and I shoved my chair back, determined to intervene, possessive, obsessed, ready to throw her over my shoulder, carry her back to my lair like a fucking caveman, and tie her up so I could edge her until she screamed for my cock.
The woman stood up straight, and her braid swung across her back, perfect for wrapping around my fist as I pounded into her hot, wet cunt. When she turned to give the bartender a piece of her mind, she revealed her profile—pale skin, an adorable stripe of freckles over her cheeks, and the greenest fucking eyes I’d ever seen.
My heart stopped then started again, sending fury crackling through my veins like wild electricity.
Eva fucking Jackson.
The daughter of the man who’d ended my NHL career.
She dared show her face in public and display that glorious ass where anyone could fucking see it, infuriating me with my misplaced possessiveness even as she tempted me into sin.
I sat back in my seat, the movement catching Dmitri’s eye. His gaze slid from me to Eva and back again, and he smirked as he raised his glass in a mocking toast.
I didn’t bother acknowledging him, just watched Eva charm the previously furious bartender. He melted as she cajoled him until he ruffled her hair, and that was fucking enough. Dmitri didn’t get me an invitation because he wanted to talk. He wanted me to see her. Hate her. Destroy her.
And worse, he knew I’d take the bait. How could I resist?
Eva Jackson was mine . Mine to turn into the instrument of my revenge against her father. Mine to punish. Mine to ruin .
And I was going to destroy her.