Page 4 of Her Rustanov Husband (Ruthless Bullies #2)
Anything
Skye
Supruga meant wife.
Supruga meant wife.
Supruga meant…
Oh hell. Oh no. Oh hell no.
Yom was right, I did end up crashing his party at the Benton Villa.
Luckily, security was light, and my conference lanyard still hung around my neck. Chest full of steam, I flashed it with authority and charged past the coordinator manning the guest list into the event space overlooking the Vegas Strip.
Floor-to-ceiling windows poured desert light over a room filled with Vegas elites.
There were women in designer dresses, men in light suits, that country hip-hop artist G.
Latham surrounded by a trio of bikers, and even Cherinity, the drag queen I’d seen plastered on hotel posters for the Mimosas & Diva-osas Drag Queen Bingo Brunch.
Several rows of chairs faced a massive screen showing a live feed of an empty stage decked out with wedding-themed decorations and a huge neon AudioNation sign as its focal point.
I didn’t bother wondering what that was about or goggling at all the Vegas big shots. I was too laser-focused on finding Artyom DaFucking-Audacity-Is-My-Middle-Name Rustanov and demanding to know why my dead name was all over some sports gossip site.
I spotted him instantly on the far side of the room with the same two guys from the bar where I ran into him last night. Still unfairly hot and unbothered in a mint-green suit I doubt any other hockey player in the league could’ve pulled off.
I hated the way my body still hummed with awareness every time I saw him. Like he was one of those industrial junkyard magnets, and my whole chest was scrap metal, helpless against his pull.
In a sea of Vegas stars, his celestial body was the only one with a stupidly strong gravitational field. At least where I was concerned.
Maybe that’s why I made a scene instead of just quietly confronting him.
“Artyom Rustanov!” I yelled as I stormed toward him. “You son of a bitch!”
“Lydia!” Yom’s face lit up, as if my arrival were a pleasant surprise. And he had the nerve to say, “To think, I have invited you to come so many places with me, and this is the party you choose.”
Was he seriously referencing all the emails he sent to my old email account after our breakup?
Invitations to everything from his first game of the season, to standing with him on the main float when Minneapolis hosted a parade in honor of the team’s first Stanley Cup win, to the awards dinner where the Zone Sports Network named him their ZSN Player of the Year.
I was hopping mad, but he sounded on the verge of laughter. Which only ratcheted up my fury as I raised my left hand and demanded, “What is the meaning of this? How the hell did this happen?”
“Yom, luv, is this your wee new wife?” a feminine voice with a heavy Irish accent asked, right before a taller, older woman elbowed her way between us.
Vibrant-red hair above, bright-green stilettos below, and in between, a glittery, beaded mini-dress that looked like it had time-traveled from the seventies just to be worn by her at this party.
“Name’s Nora Benton, and oh, have I been dying to meet you, girlie, ever since the news broke on SportsGoss . Here—this is for you in exchange for letting me have a good gander at that darling ring!”
She shoved a glass of champagne into my right hand before I could protest, then snatched up my left to gawk at the monkey’s paw of a ring that I’d given back to Yom over six years ago.
“Would you look at that? Aren’t you the lucky girl. I got drunk-married to a sports star once, y’know,” she confessed with a wink. “But he was a jockey. Half my size, he was. But he knew how to ride, if you get my meaning. Let ’im have another lap or two before I got the whole thing annulled.”
“Okay, Grandma, enough of that.”
A blond man nearly as tall as Yom, dressed in a slate three-piece suit, appeared to pull Nora away. I could only assume this was Cole Benton, Nora’s grandson and the current CEO of Benton Enterprises.
He cast an apologetic look toward Yom. “Is there anything I can do to… alleviate the situation?” His expression went from apologetic to cool when his gaze shifted to me, the woman who’d disrupted—whatever this event was supposed to be.
On the screen behind him, Death Buddha, that old metal band from the early 2000s who’d had an unexpected summer hit, climbed onto the stage.
“There is nothing to alleviate,” Yom said, his voice devoid of apology—as if Cole Benton were nothing more than a servant to be dismissed. “And I will handle it from here.”
Same old entitled monster.
But unlike back in college, when I thought I could maybe teach him some manners by example, I held no illusions about who I was dealing with now. A monster, without manners or remorse.
So maybe it shouldn’t have surprised me when, instead of apologizing for not telling me we’d apparently gotten freaking married the previous night, he said, “We will go upstairs to my suite to have this necessary conversation.”
Was he kidding?
“Sir, all I want from you is an explanation and an annulment,” I snapped through gritted teeth. “And for the record? I’d burn in hell before I went to a second location with you.”
“Funny.” He leaned in to my ear, slipping back into the heavy Russian accent he’d had in college. “This is not what you are telling me last night when you are begging so prettily for me to take you back to room and fuck your tight little pussy like I used to.”
I jerked back, my anger spiking in a way it probably wouldn’t have if I’d gotten the chance to take my meds this morning.
“ Nyet , Lydia. None of that.”
I didn’t even realize I’d raised my hand to slap him until he caught my wrist mid-air.
His eyes blazed, but then we both turned as a collective gasp rose from the crowd. Onscreen, Death Buddha’s lead singer, West Nygard, appeared to be making some heartfelt plea. Later, I’d find out it was an apology-slash-love declaration. But I didn’t get to see the end of it.
Yom reversed the hold on my wrist and hauled me toward a set of glass doors leading to a balcony overlooking the Vegas Strip.
Alarm bells went off when they clicked shut behind us, cutting off the sounds of the party. That was when I realized he’d gotten exactly what he wanted—me alone.
Which I shouldn’t… couldn’t be with him.
I lunged for the handle.
But his reflexes had only sharpened over the years. He was in front of me before I could take more than a step toward my escape route. And when I feinted right, he only sighed and stepped in front of me again. Like a nearly foot taller impenetrable Russian wall.
“Let us not do this, supruga .” His nose flared with a weary exhale. “You may be fine with a public scene, but I am not. I have a reputation to uphold over the next ninety days.”
“Reputation?” I sputtered so hard it took me several moments to form words. “You think drunk-marrying me against my will is any way to uphold your reputation?”
He sneered in that particular Rustanov way of his—as if the person he was speaking to was both an idiot and in imminent danger of being killed.
But then, to my shock, he answered, “In this case, yes. At least according to my PR person, who is on a plane to Vegas right now because she is so excited I am now married to Lydia Carrington.”
I jutted my chin. “Say what now?”
Yom lifted a thick, dark eyebrow. “We spoke of my purchasing the team from your father last night. Are you not remembering even this, from before you drank too much?”
I clenched my teeth. “I remember telling you whatever business you had with Mr. Carrington has nothing to do with me.”
His raised eyebrow collapsed into another Rustanov smirk-sneer. “Perhaps this is not true. Your father is now happy to sell the Raptors and move from Minnesota after his abject defeat in the governor’s race.”
My father. The usual guilt surrounding my estrangement from the Carringtons began to rise, but I shoved it down.
Joseph was the kind of out-of-touch millionaire Minnesotans had rejected by a landslide.
And he’d made it more than clear six years ago that Paul wasn’t the only one expendable if it meant securing Yom for the Raptors.
“Think I give a damn?” he’d snapped when I tried to explain why I couldn’t possibly go through with the wedding.
“That boy’s the best you’ll ever get. He’s a hockey phenom and a Rustanov.
A Rustanov! So whatever pathetic excuse you’ve cooked up to sabotage all my plans and call this off, grow up and get over it.
I swear, you’re worse than Paul with this nonsense. Do I need to come up there and drag?—”
I’d ended the call before he could finish threatening to come to Canada and drag me back himself.
“The deal is all but signed.” Yom’s voice yanked me back to the present conversation. “But the locals are…”
He considered his next words with an annoyed sideways glance. “Let us say, less than happy about a foreigner from my particular mother country owning their best hockey team. Even though this foreigner is the only reason the Raptors have won two Stanley Cups after fifteen barren years.”
I shifted from foot to foot, unsure whether to cheer my fellow Minnesotans for finally knocking the guy they’d nicknamed “Our Russkie Cousin” out of the family fold… or boo them for their anti-immigrant nonsense about team ownership.
“According to my PR liaison, this surprise marriage announcement is already increasing hometown sentiment across social media and local news.”
My heart clenched. “This stupid drunken mistake actually made the local news?”
He flinched. As if I’d hurt him. Even though…
“That’s exactly what it was. On both our parts. Wasn’t it?” I asked. “It’s been six years. I know you have to have moved on from that stupid and poorly thought-out relationship.”
His face hardened with an impenetrable look I couldn't read. “Have you moved on, Lydia?”
“Of course I have,” I shot back without a millisecond of hesitation. “It was six years ago. And I grew up the day I left you. A lot .”
He regarded me for several long seconds. Not a word, just the unbearable noise of his stare.
Then, to my surprise, his expression relaxed back into the pleasant mask he’d worn when I first arrived at the party.
“Point is, this marriage is the best thing that could have happened.” He plucked the flute of champagne from my hand and took a cool sip. “For me. For the team. Perhaps also for you.”
I opened my mouth to counter that last claim, but before I could, he announced, “For these reasons, I have a counterproposal to your annulment demand. You will give me three months of your life—just three months of living in Minneapolis with me and playing the role of my newlywed wife until the contracts are finalized. And in exchange, you can have anything you want from me.”
My mouth parted, and suddenly I was back in Gemidgee on that cold winter night when I swore I’d give Yom anything— anything —if he’d just helped me rescue a dog I couldn’t possibly save on my own.
But now it was him, offering me the same deal. Anything. Was he serious?
“This is a serious offer, Lydia,” he assured me, as if reading my mind. “Anything. I will give you anything you want if you agree to stay married to me for ninety more days.”
He leaned in, his voice as low and insidious as dark smoke, whispering directly into my ear: “All you have to do is ask.”