“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 madeit 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.
