So Over You (Chicago Rebels #2)(79)

“You condescending prick! I’m a grown woman, Vadim. I make my own decisions, and that was my decision.”

He held her face with both hands, all drama because everything he did had to be drenched in it. “I have waited my entire life to love you and I refuse to let your stubbornness take you away from me.”

Her heart beat faster—or faster than before—at his mention of love. But love didn’t sneak around crushing dreams because it knew best. Love didn’t get to sugarcoat this turd.

She jerked away. “That’s not good enough. You can’t throw out the love card and use it to excuse this.”

“I can and I will. That night in Buffalo, you nearly died. So don’t tell me that my love for you isn’t big enough to excuse my behavior. My will to protect you will always be bigger than anything you can throw at me.”

A tiny kernel in her brain saw his viewpoint, even if he couldn’t see hers. He wouldn’t back down, because Vadim Petrov always knew best. How to recover his skills. How to handle his mother. How to deal with the woman he supposedly loved.

“Isobel, tomorrow is not promised, but there are things we can do to make it more likely. For you to go onto the ice, play hard, risk the life that means so much to me . . . these are not on the list of those things.”

Always back to him. “So you’re not sorry?”

He set his chin, all Slavic imperiousness. “Nyet.”

Having reached this impasse, they stood staring at each other in a frigid face-off. Pound for pound, she had always been a better player than him, but the time for games was over. This was her life, her future, and he had damned it with one phone call.

“Then what comes next, Vadim? You’ve made this decision for me. What’s next for Isobel Chase?”

She sounded so forlorn—she was referring to herself in the third person, for fuck’s sake—and she hated it. She hated him. Yet she wanted this man she hated to soothe her and tell her it would be okay. Then one night while he was sleeping, she would lodge a puck in a very uncomfortable place.

Vadim, the man with all the answers, now outlined his plan for Isobel’s life. “You will be a coach. You have done well with me and other players want to work with you. Moretti will hire you. He will do this when I tell him how good you are.”

Maybe he was behind Moretti’s offer. “So you’re going to fix it. Again. I skate by the grace of Vadim Petrov’s favor.”

His brow lined in recognition of that little dose of sarcasm. “You will have me stand back and let you put yourself—put us—in jeopardy?” He stalked her until she was back against the banister in the marble-walled foyer, making his intent clear. “It has been a circuitous route, but we are here now. Together, the way it’s supposed to be.”

“You’ve got it all worked out, don’t you? I’m exactly where you want me. Fawning over the great Petrov, second fiddle to his career. Working to ensure you’re the center of the hockey universe.”

He placed hands on either side of her, gripping the handrail. “I know you are angry, Isobel. In recognition of this, I will not rise to your bait. In time, you will realize that this is for the best.”

The best? Her skates yanked from under her by the man who has everything? The god who can have anyone? Was she supposed to feel blessed that he had chosen her to love above all others? Because it didn’t feel like a blessing. It felt like a leash, on which she was forced to stay two steps behind. Vadim was the sun, and she was a pale moon, whipped by forces beyond her control.

“I want to live my life on my terms, not yours.”

“There are always checks on our lives. Years ago, I had mine, but I made it out. I made it here. You will adjust in time.”

“And meanwhile I hang around with the other WAGs following the career of my man?”

He smirked in victory at how she had referred to him. My man. Apparently the dumbass Russian’s sarcasm meter was broken.

“Good, this is what we will talk about. Real things, our future.” He cupped her jaw, his touch so tender after he’d bruised her beyond belief. “So you want to be a W or a G?”

She jerked out of his grasp. “Remember how my dad pushed me, how he blackballed you in the NHL because he was worried I’d throw my career over for a boy?”

“And he was wrong. You would never have done that.” He stared, recognition arriving a second later. “I’m not asking you to do that.”

“Yes, you are. You’re asking me to hang tight at home while you hit the road and get hit on in return.”

“You do not trust me? There is no one else. There has been no one else since I returned to Chicago.”

“Not even Marceline with her tittie tat? Yeah, I saw that text, Vadim.”

He didn’t have the decency to look cornered or guilty. “That is history, and sometimes women from my past will contact me. You know there is only you.” He said it so simply that she never doubted it for a second.

She trusted he wouldn’t stray—at least not immediately—but there were other ways trust could be frayed. Broken. And by going behind her back, he had shown what loving Vadim would be like. His way or none at all.

Isobel a WAG? It was ridiculous.

Yet she was tired. So tired. Staying still wasn’t in her nature, but maybe taking a break . . . No. Once she did that, it would be over. Once she submitted to Vadim’s dominance and his definition of love, she would be finished. Subsumed.