Chapter 28 Aleksandr
ALEKSANDR
The man’s nose broke under my knuckles with a wet crunch.
He spat blood onto the warehouse floor, still defiant, even zip-tied to the chair. “I was just doing my job, just watching them—”
“Watching them,” I snarled as I grabbed his collar and yanked him forward. “You mean following them, taking pictures of them, reporting to Jedediah Carter on where they go and who they see and what they do.”
“I didn’t—”
I hit him again, harder. His head snapped back.
“Sasha,” Dmitri said from the other side of the man, “the game starts in twenty minutes.”
Fuck.
Blood stained my hands, spattered across my shirt. I’d been too angry to be careful, too focused on making this piece of shit understand. It was as if all the violence I’d held within me for the last sixteen years had exploded all at once as I proved my loyalty to Nikolai Berezin.
“I don’t want him reporting back to Carter,” I said.
Dmitri nodded. “You need to go. Now.”
“I’m not done—”
“You are.” He gripped my shoulder and squeezed. “The bratva doesn’t need anyone questioning why you’re late to a hockey game.”
I looked at the blood on my clothes, the split knuckles, at the man slumped in the chair—still breathing, albeit barely.
Berezin, the Pakhan, as I needed to get in the habit of calling him, even in my head, insisted I accompany Dmitri on these raids. My debt was blood for blood, the only way to prove I was as committed to the bratva as I hoped the bratva was committed to me.
I made it to the arena with five minutes to spare, striding into the arena just as the team took the ice for warmups.
My hands shook—not from fear, but from adrenaline and violence still coursing through my veins.
My black suit jacket covered the damp stains on my cuffs, and I’d scrubbed my hands the best I could in the bathroom, but the phantom scent of copper still teased at my nose.
I caught my reflection in the plexiglass as I strode down the tunnel toward the arena. I looked murderous.
Good.
I walked onto the ice like I owned it, nodding at security and heading straight for the bench. One of my assistant coaches gave me a questioning look, but I ignored him.
From the bench, I scanned the ice.
Cole was warming up, moving through puck drills by himself. His face was blank.
Tristan and Massi stretched together, quietly speaking as they flexed their hips. Fuck, what was going on? Why wasn’t Tristan with Cole?
My eyes slid to the section where student workers sat.
Eva’s red hair caught the light. She hunched over her tablet, exhaustion written in every line of her body, her hands trembling as she took notes.
I’d just beaten a man half to death for photographing her, and my cousin would finish the job.
She was mine.
And she had no idea.
She looked up and scanned the bench. Our eyes met, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
The game started.
I kept seeing the man’s face when I hit him, felt the satisfaction of bones breaking under my fist, kept thinking about how willingly I’d do worse for her.
How fucking right it felt.
Tristan watched Cole take a hit and didn’t do a fucking thing to stop it.
“Blyat,” I swore, grabbing the boards.
My assistant coach leaned over. “Coach, you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I snapped.
I wasn’t fine. I was standing with blood under my fingernails, watching my team fall apart while the woman I’d just committed violence for sat thirty feet away, looking like she was going to burst into tears.
Over the last week, I’d applied the sort of brutal Russian training in practice I’d avoided my entire career. Breaking boys down to build them back as men was bullshit, but every single time the team broke apart, misery seemed to be the only thing that brought them back together.
And yet, here we were again, the team playing like shit, and I was worried about the playoffs for the first time in my career.
At the first intermission, I followed the team back to the locker room. They sat in silence, not looking at each other.
I opened my mouth to tear into them, and then I caught sight of my reflection in the glass partition of my office, saw the darkness in my eyes.
What the fuck could I say?
This was my fault. I’d destroyed this team by using Eva and letting my revenge consume all that was good about her, Cole, and Tristan.
And now, I’d crossed yet another line for the bratva.
Cole and Tristan sat beside each other on a wooden bench, saying nothing, staring into space.
“Whatever’s broken between the two of you, you better fucking fix it before the next period,” I snarled then walked out before they could respond.
Me
What’s wrong?
Eva
I don’t want to talk about it.
My chest constricted.
Me
Baby girl, tell me.
Eva
Don’t you have a team to coach?
I didn’t like how she deflected instead of answering the question when she was clearly hurting. I especially didn’t like the tight feeling in my chest when I weighed my job as a coach against the violence I’d committed tonight.
Me
What’s wrong?
Eva
You’re not going to let this go, are you?
Me
No.
Eva
I’ll call you after the game.
I stared at my phone before sliding it into my pocket. She had no idea what she’d truly asked me to do when she asked if I could convince the bratva to take down Jed Carter.
She’d never know if I could avoid it.
During the next period, Haruto let in a goal he should have stopped, and I watched his shoulders slump with defeat, watched him slam his stick against the post in frustration.
Massi tried to rally the team. I could see him talking, gesturing, trying to inject some life into the locker room through sheer force of will.
But his face was drawn, exhausted, and I knew he was thinking about his own future, his own NHL prospects, wondering if being captain of a team in utter chaos would be the end of his chances.
In the third period, Cole picked a fight, because of course he did. He slammed into the penalty box with blood streaming down his chin and met my eyes with pure fucking hatred.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. I’d beaten that man bloody, as much for Cole as Eva. He was mine to protect, just as she was, and watching Jed Carter as a pawn made me want to burn the fucking city down to keep them safe.
The game ended. Marauders lost 4-2. Tristan had scored one goal and assisted the second, but it wasn’t enough.
I watched the post-game handshakes, watched my team skate off the ice with their heads down, gritted my teeth through the press conference, and then flagellated myself for not caring more.
What kind of a coach was I?
Dmitri
It’s done.
Dmitri
You did good tonight.
What kind of man was I?
Finally, the locker room emptied. Tristan gave me a long look before leaving. “Coach?”
“Yes, Baptiste?”
Tristan looked at me for far too fucking long, his eyes flicking to my bruised knuckles, widening, and then going back to my face. He opened his mouth as if to speak, shook his head, then left.
How the hell was I going to get this team to a championship if I couldn’t even get the players to talk to one another?
My fault.
I opened my text chain with Eva and typed Are you okay? before deleting it. She said she’d call. I needed to let her do it on her terms.
I drove home and let myself into my apartment.
I typed Baby girl, please, then deleted it.
I waited another thirty minutes.
I typed I’m sorry and left it there for a long moment, my thumb hovering over send before deleting that too. Sorry for what? For blackmailing her in the first place? For blaming her for Jed Carter’s evil? For beating the shit out of a man for following her?
Yeah, fuck, for all of that.
I grabbed a bottle of vodka from the freezer and poured myself a glass, then a second.
I should drink water. Should go to bed. Should—
My phone screen lit up with her face, and I nearly dropped it trying to answer.
“Eva,” I breathed.
She appeared on screen with her loose curls framing her face, wearing Tristan’s oversized sweatshirt, propped up against pillows in her bed, so fucking beautiful, it hurt. Desire and guilt and need shot through me.
“Hi,” she said quietly, her eyes luminous in the low light.
I could see it immediately—her unreadable expression, the way she held her shoulders, the tightness around her mouth. She was performing, holding herself together through sheer force of will, that stubborn control she refused to let go of.
“What happened to upset you during the game?” I asked, my voice rougher than I intended. The vodka had brought everything too close to the surface.
“You saw?”
“Yes.”
She swallowed hard. “They played like shit.”
Because I’d dragged them into my revenge and then broke the heart of the team. I reached for my glass, remembered the camera was on, and moved my hand away from it instead.
“What upset you, baby girl?”
She was so good at hiding, at pretending, at showing nothing while everything inside her broke into a million pieces.
“Cole brought his fiancée to the game,” she said, her voice carefully neutral.
Fuck.
“I’m sorry,” I said simply.
“Me too.” Her eyes fell, and I watched her jaw tighten. “Not that I have the right to him. He’s made his feelings clear, and so have I, and that’s the end of that, right?”
Wrong, so fucking wrong, I didn’t know where to start.
“It’s fine.” She smiled, bright and false. “I’m fine. It’s whatever. I shouldn’t have even mentioned it.”
She was going to shatter if someone didn’t take the weight off. And she’d called me, which meant some part of her knew I could.
“Eva, where are you right now?”
“What?”
“Physically. Where are you?”
She glanced around as if she’d forgotten. “In bed.”
“Show me.” When she hesitated, I gentled my voice. “Just let me see that you’re safe.”
After a long moment of looking into the camera, she held up her phone to show me a panorama of her space—a small room, neat, the bed taking up most of the space, textbooks stacked on a cheap desk in front of a curtained window.
“Good girl,” I murmured before I could stop myself.
She flinched. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t do that. Don’t try to— We’re not—” She gestured helplessly between the phone and herself.
She was wrong again. We absolutely were, and I knew it because she’d called me.
“Eva, I want you to do something for me.”
“Alek—”
“Get comfortable. Really comfortable. Take off your shoes if you’re wearing them. Pull the blankets up.”
I watched her hesitate, watched her want to refuse, to maintain that iron control that served her so well otherwise.
Then, she kicked off her slippers and pulled the blanket up over her lap, pressing her lips together with frustration but obeying me all the same.
The small surrender sent dark satisfaction through me.
“Good,” I murmured. “Now, take a breath. Deep one. Fill your lungs.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“Breathe, Eva.”
She did. Her chest rose and fell, and the tension in her shoulders eased slightly.
“Again,” I instructed. “Slower this time.”
She obeyed without arguing this time, as I gave her the quiet she’d confessed she needed, took away the need to think, to perform, to do anything but listen to my voice and do what I said.
“That’s it,” I said. “Just breathe.”
Her next breath shook slightly.
“Tell me what you’re feeling,” I said, more gently now.
“I’m tired.” The words came out small. “I’m so fucking tired, Alek.”
“I know, baby girl.”
“Don’t call me that.” There was no heat in her words, just exhaustion.
“Close your eyes,” I said softly.
“Alek—”
“Just for a minute. Close your eyes and focus on my voice.”
After a moment, she did.
“Good girl,” I praised, watching the flush spread across her cheeks even with her eyes closed. “Now, just listen to my voice and let everything else fade.”
I talked to her quietly, keeping my voice low and steady, told her to relax her shoulders, to unclench her jaw, to let the tension drain out of her body one muscle at a time. I watched her slowly, incrementally, surrender to my commands.
I swallowed hard. This was what I craved—her trust, watching her let go because she knew I could carry the weight for her, even if only for a moment.
After several minutes, she’d relaxed, her careful mask replaced by peace—the quiet she’d told me she missed.
“How do you feel?”
Her eyes opened slowly, clearer now, if still sad.
“Better,” she admitted softly. “Thank you, Sir.”
The title sent heat straight through me.
“You’re welcome, baby girl.”
We looked at each other through the screen. She realized what she’d just done, what she’d said, how she’d submitted—that she’d let me give her exactly what she needed.
And she panicked.
“I should go,” she said quickly.
“Eva—”
“It’s late. I need to sleep.”
“Wait—”
“Goodnight, Alek.”
I looked down at my glass, still half-full of vodka, looked at the bottle on the table beside me, half empty now. I took a drink, then another.
My phone buzzed.
Dmitri
We need to talk about Jed Carter.
I stared at the message for a long moment then typed back with fumbling fingers.
Me
Tommiewiw.
Dmitri
Are you okay?
Me
Drhik.
Dmitri
Christ, Sasha. Get some sleep.
I picked up the bottle of vodka, put it down, picked it up again. Finally, I dumped it down the sink and went to bed, still clutching my phone in case she called back.
She didn’t.