Sinfully Falling For My Husband's Hockey Son

Cameron

I slammed my bedroom door so hard the glass in the high windows rattled in their frames.

"Fucking hell!"

The roar tore out of my chest as I paced the floor of my room, the hardwood slick beneath my bare feet.

My pulse was a violent drumbeat behind my ribs, every breath tasting like acid.

I looked down at the icy bottle of water gripped tight in my hand, knuckles white, veins straining against my skin.

With a guttural curse, I hurled the bottle with everything I had.

It smashed against the far wall with a deafening crack, the plastic bursting and spraying cold water all over the dark wood paneling before bouncing onto the floor.

I collapsed onto the edge of my bed, dropping my head into my hands, digging my fingers into my hair until it hurt.

But physical pain couldn't drown out the toxic fire burning in my gut.

Eleven years.

Eleven damn years since my mother had laid in a sterile hospital room, her body withered to skin and bone by leukemia, gasping for her final breaths.

I was seven years old, holding her cold, fragile hand, watching the tears slip down her hollow cheeks as my father swore a sacred vow to her.

He had pressed his lips to her pale forehead and promised—promised on his life, on his soul—that he would never love another woman. That she was his only one.

I had watched her die believing that lie. I had carried her memory like a shield while my father built an empire on blood, grit, and ruthless ambition.

And now? Now he sweeps into the mansion with some stray he picked up off the street. A girl.

I gritted my teeth, a vein throbbing at my temple. How old is she even supposed to be? She had soft, wide eyes that pooled with unshed tears, cheeks that flushed too easily, and a fragile, delicate body that looked like a stiff breeze could break her in half.

A fucking child.

And my father called her his wife. The word made me want to tear the mansion down brick by brick.

Knock. Knock.

"Cameron? Are you in there?"

Holland’s voice drifted through the thick wood of the door. Authoritative. Calm. Unbothered.

I didn't answer. I stayed frozen on the edge of the mattress, my jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached, waiting for him to just go away.

The brass handle turned. The door creaked open, and Holland stepped into the dimly lit room.

He stopped almost immediately, his sharp, dark eyes dropping to the puddle of water and the crushed plastic bottle lying on the floor.

He didn't flinch. He didn't yell. He just let out a slow, heavy exhale, the look of a man who knew exactly what kind of fire he was walking into.

"I know how you feel, Cameron," Holland said softly, his voice dropping into that quiet, measured register he used when negotiating multi-million-dollar deals.

"You don't know shit," I growled without looking up.

Holland walked deeper into the room, stepping over the puddle. "Her name is Penny. Her parents were buried yesterday. They died in a head-on collision on the highway."

I kept my eyes locked on the floor, but my chest tightened despite myself.

"Her father was my oldest friend," Holland continued, his tone laced with a quiet, undeniable gravity. "They were dirt poor, Cameron. When they died, they left her with nothing. Loan sharks were already knocking down her door. They would have destroyed her. She was terrified, starving, and entirely alone. I brought her here to protect her. I gave her my name so no one in this city could ever lay a hand on her again."

He paused, stepping closer until his expensive leather shoes were right in front of me.

"I'm asking you to accept her," Holland said quietly. "Not for me. For the sake of decency. She's lost everything."

Slowly, I lifted my head. My storm-grey eyes locked onto his dark, unyielding ones.

I looked at the man who had promised my dying mother total devotion, only to parade a girl my age into our home a decade later.

A cruel, bitter smile flexed the corner of my mouth.

"I don't give a fuck, Dad," I rasped out, my voice laced with venom. "You want to play savior? Go ahead. You can marry five more wives for all I care. It means nothing to me."

Before he could answer, I stood up, brushing past him.

I walked straight to my walk-in wardrobe, ripped a black T-shirt off a hanger, and pulled it over my head. I grabbed a heavy leather jacket from the hook, shoving my arms through the sleeves.

"Where are you going?" Holland asked, turning to face me.

"Out," I snapped.

I strode out of the closet, heading straight for the bedroom door. Holland was standing in the path, but I didn't slow down.

I shoved right past him, deliberately slamming my shoulder hard into his as I stormed out into the hallway. He didn't move an inch, but I didn't care.

I bounded down the grand marble staircase, my fists balled tightly at my sides, the skin over my knuckles white.

The air inside the mansion felt thick, poisonous, suffocating. I needed to drive. I needed to hit the gas until the speedometer hit triple digits and the wind drowned out the rage screaming in my head.

I shoved open the heavy front doors and stepped out into the cool night air.

My black Dodge Charger was parked down the cobblestone driveway, looking like a shadowed beast under the dim estate lights.

I snatched my keys from my jacket pocket, disarming the alarm with a sharp beep-beep.

I reached for the driver's side door handle, but as I pulled it open, my eyes instinctively drifted upward.

Directly above the garage was the master suite. The large, floor-to-ceiling windows were illuminated, throwing a warm, golden glow out into the dark night.

The sheer, thin white curtains were drawn shut, but from where I stood on the driveway, the backlighting turned the room into a shadow box.

A silhouette was moving behind the fabric.

Penny.

I should have gotten into the car. I should have turned the ignition, slammed my foot on the gas, and left this fucking circus behind.

But I didn't. My hand froze on the cold metal door handle. My feet felt glued to the cobblestones.

Through the translucent sheer of the curtain, I watched her.

She moved with a slow, hesitant grace, oblivious to the fact that the dark night outside made her private room a stage. She lifted her arms, her fingers reaching up to the collar of her worn sweater.

My chest went tight. I held my breath.

Slowly, she pulled the sweater over her head, tossing it aside onto the bed. All she wore up top was a thin, simple bra.

The warm light traced the soft, curved outline of her waist, the delicate line of her spine, the gentle slope of her hips.

I told myself to look away. Look away, you sick bastard. That's your father's wife.

Instead, my grip tightened on the car door until my fingers hurt.

Her hands reached around her back. With a subtle flick of her wrists, she unhooked the clasp. The straps slid down her smooth shoulders, and the fabric fell away.

The light hit her from the side. Through the thin curtain, the faint, shadow-profile of her chest was entirely exposed—the subtle, perfect peak of her nipples highlighted against the golden glow of the room.

My breath slammed to a complete halt in my throat. Blood roared in my ears, hot and sudden, surging straight down to my gut.

Damn.

The word burned through my brain like wildfire.

I tore my eyes away, dragging my heavy body into the leather driver's seat and slamming the car door shut.

The heavy thud echoed in the quiet night, sealing me inside the dark cabin.

I slumped back against the headrest, my hands gripping the steering wheel so hard the leather groaned under the pressure.

I stared blankly through the windshield, my heart hammering a dangerous, chaotic rhythm against my ribs, her shadow still burned into the back of my eyelids.

God help me.

I knew right then, with terrible, sickening certainty, that keeping my hands off my father's new wife was going to be an absolute fucking nightmare.