Stealing My Brother's Bride: The Ice‑Hockey Star's Obsession

Hayley POV:

The handle of the designer shopping bag cut into my fingers, but I barely noticed.

Inside were the limited-edition sneakers for my fiancé, Kennedy Ferguson, before his big game.

I wanted to surprise him, so I slipped into his hotel suite's walk-in closet, waiting for him to return.

Minutes passed. Then the door clicked open.

I peered through the narrow gap between the closet doors—and my blood ran cold.

On the bed, two naked bodies writhed together. The man on top was Kennedy. The woman beneath him, moaning with abandon, was my best friend, Bree Santiago.

I clamped a hand over my mouth to stifle a scream. I forced myself to watch every degrading second.

Their rhythm slowed. Bree curled into Kennedy's arms, her voice saccharine with false worry. "You're about to get engaged to her, and you're still sleeping with me?"

Kennedy lit a cigarette, exhaling with a sneer. "She won't even let me touch her. Too much work, always playing hard to get. Boring." He blew smoke at Bree. "You? You're a wildcat."

Bree giggled, tracing lazy circles on his chest. "But what about me when you marry her?"

Kennedy crushed the cigarette against the ashtray, flipped her onto her stomach, and growled, "Marry her? That's just for show. You're the one I truly want. And this is how I'll make you feel it."

Their moans resumed—louder, filthier, punctuated by dirty words that carved into my soul.

I pulled out my phone, my hands trembling, and recorded everything—their faces, their words, their betrayals. When they finally stumbled into the bathroom for round two, I slid out of the closet, my feet silent on the carpet, and fled the suite.

I stumbled through the hallway, the betrayal searing my chest. I didn't care where I was going.I just needed to drown it all.

The next thing I knew, I was collapsing onto a stool at the first‑floor bar.

I ordered the strongest whiskey, one after another. Everything blurred. The lights, the sounds, the faces. I just wanted to get drunk. I wanted to forget.

A tall figure sat down on the stool next to me, bringing with him the faint scent of cedarwood and tobacco. I didn't look up.

"Another," I mumbled to the bartender.

The man beside me said nothing, but a fresh glass of whiskey appeared in front of me. I grabbed it and downed it in one go.

His voice was a low, magnetic rumble next to my ear. "Drinking alone. Are we celebrating or forgetting?"

I turned my head. Through my drunken haze, I saw a blurred but sharp, imposing jawline. I let out a cold laugh. "Killing the past."

He chuckled, a sound that cut through the bar's noise. He took the empty glass from my hand and gestured to the bartender. "Get her the same. On my tab."

The alcohol made me bold, reckless. I leaned in close, my lips almost brushing his ear. "You look like you have stories, too. Want to... trade a night to forget them all?"

The man's body tensed for a fraction of a second. Then, I felt a large, scorching hand on the small of my back. His voice was a whisper only I could hear. "As you wish."

The rest of the night was a blur of fragmented memories.

Being swept off my feet. The weightless feeling of an elevator rising. The click of a hotel room door opening and closing. The dizzying sensation of being tossed onto a soft, massive bed.

He came over me, his body a wall of heat.

His mouth found my throat, teeth grazing my pulse, while his fingers worked the buttons of my blouse with impatient precision.

I arched into him, my own hands clawing at his shirt, desperate for skin.

He growled low in his chest as he pushed the fabric aside, his palm sliding up my ribs.

I gasped, my nails digging into his shoulders.

He pulled back just enough to look at me.Those deep-set blue eyes burning with something feral,and then his lips crashed down on mine again, harder, hungrier.

His knee parted my thighs, and his hand trailed lower, tracing the waistband of my skirt.

I felt his breath hot against my ear, a rough whisper of "You asked for this."

And then—the world dissolved into a blur of tangled limbs, ragged breaths, and the raw, punishing rhythm of two strangers using each other to erase everything.

When the final shudder came, I let the darkness take me.

The next morning, harsh sunlight woke me. My head throbbed, and my entire body ached as if it had been run over by a truck.

I groaned and forced my eyes open. The first thing I saw was an unfamiliar, luxurious hotel room. The wild memories of last night flooded back.

I shot up in bed. The sheet slid off my body, revealing a canvas of dark marks and bruises across my skin. My eyes darted to the space beside me in horror.

A man was there, his back to me. His bare torso was a landscape of broad shoulders and solid, powerful muscle.

He must have felt me move, because he slowly turned around.

When I saw his face, I felt every drop of blood in my body freeze solid.

Deep-set blue eyes, a high-bridged nose, and a handsome, arrogant face I'd seen on countless sports magazine covers.

He was Blake Ferguson.

The infamous "living devil" of Chicago's pro hockey team. The legendary captain.

And... my goddamn fiancé's older brother.

A playful smirk played on Blake Ferguson's lips, his hawk-like eyes locking onto me, as if he could see right through me. His voice, raspy with sleep, wrapped around words that sealed my fate.

"Morning, sister‑in‑law."