Deceitful Vows (Marital Privileges #2)

1. Zoya

1

ZOYA

Present day…

M y focus should be on the almost restraint-like stirrups protruding from the end of the bed I’m seated on, or how my backside is clinging to the minute strip of material maintaining my modesty. The only thing that demands my attention when Dr. Hemway enters his examination room, however, is the location of my underwear.

Excluding a patient gown, I’m naked from the waist down, chilled from an AC set far too low for the icy conditions outside, yet my focus is fixed on whether I remembered to hide my panties when the nurse exited to give me privacy so I could switch my regular clothes for ones made from tissue paper.

Excluding the receptionist, everyone in this office has seen what I’m working with—inside and out—so why do I care if Dr. Hemway sees the skimpy material a fashion lover classified as panties?

It’s a paranoia most women have when visiting their gynecologist, though it should be as regular as brushing my teeth for me. I’ve been poked and prodded for years. It started the week I got my first period, which was at the disgusting age of eleven, and although I could have ended it when forced to move out of my home at the tender age of fifteen, the pain associated with my diagnosis wouldn’t allow it.

Endometriosis has been kicking my ass for over a decade, and it has gotten to the point I can no longer ignore it.

I shift my eyes from my handbag that I hope is concealing panties I only ever pull out when I want to pretend I’m enjoying the rollercoaster ride known as adulthood, when Dr. Hemway sighs.

He’s reviewing the results of the laparoscopy surgery I undertook two years ago. I was meant to return for the results the following week, but with finances tight and the outcome not overly concerning for someone missing their maternal gene, I put it off for as long as possible.

I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t feel like I was going to perish from excessive cramps and abnormal flow every twenty-eight days or if Dr. Hemway allowed phone consultations.

“Is it bad?” I ask, too impatient to wait.

He peers up at me, his kind eyes glistening with concern now instead of the disappointment of my prolonged lack of contact. “I’ve seen worse.”

He hits me with a look I can only assume a father gives his daughter when he’s about to deliver bad news, before he sits on a wheely chair and rolls closer to my bedside. I’ll never experience his expression for real because I’ve never met my father. He left before I was born, which is ridiculous to admit since my baby sister is six years younger than me and has an identical bloodline.

“But there are no guarantees the endometrial tissue hasn’t extended past your uterine wall. It could now be in your fallopian tubes and ovaries as well. I will have to order additional tests.”

“Could that be the cause of the additional pain I’m experiencing?”

He twists his lips before slowly shaking his head. “Not necessarily. The severity of the diagnosis doesn’t often correspond with the pain allotment. Even someone with minor scarring can face immense pain.”

I jerk up my chin in understanding. When I was first diagnosed with endometriosis, the damage was minimal, even with my pain threshold being recorded at an eleven out of ten.

After placing my patient record on top of the torture instruments every woman hates, making me hopeful the nurse’s assumption he’d want to examine me is fraudulent, Dr. Hemway wheels closer.

“If you would rather skip additional tests, we have a handful of other options at our disposal.”

I wait, not needing to encourage him to continue. He loves to talk, and although I’d prefer he remain quiet while examining me, his ramblings give me something to concentrate on other than the pain.

“Oral contraceptives to control your hormones, or progestins to stop your menstrual period entirely. Another laparoscopic ablation or a laparotomy.” His expression changes, cautioning me to catch my breath before I lose the chance. “Or, depending on the severity of your pain, we could consider a full hysterectomy.”

The last option is new. He’s never mentioned it before. It announces that my options are becoming more limited the longer I ignore my diagnosis and that I was stupid for leaving my condition unmanaged for so long.

“A full hysterectomy?” I murmur, needing a moment to think. He nods. “Would that make me…?” I struggle to find which word to go with first. Pain-free should be at the top of the list, but unwomanly is the only word my brain conjures.

Women are constantly judged on their ability to rear offspring. In my family, your entire existence is based on your fertility status. When my body failed to uphold my mother’s belief on what makes me a woman, I was discarded like a broken toy.

I can only imagine her response when she learns I may have to remove “the one thing that makes me a woman” to live a pain-free existence.

Dr. Hemway must see something I didn’t mean to express. “A hysterectomy is our last option. Before committing to that course of action, we have many routes to explore.” I discover the reason for the unease in his tone when he murmurs, “But they all come at a cost, Zoya.”

Embarrassment colors my tone. “How much?”

He appears as ashamed as I am about discussing finances while I’m not wearing any panties. His deep timbre just hides it better. “The hormone therapy I would recommend for someone in your stage of prognosis commences at approximately two thousand six hundred.”

“For the entire treatment?”

My heart sinks to my feet when he shakes his head. “Per month.”

“Per month? That’s over thirty thousand a year! That might be chump change to you, but I didn’t even earn that much last year.”

I don’t earn a third of that now, but I will save that embarrassment for a day when my legs aren’t minutes from being encased in stirrups.

“A hysterectomy won’t be any cheaper. You’ll require a stay in the hospital, then a similar hormone replacement therapy to slowly ease you into menopause.”

“Menopause?” My voice replicates someone who has been repeatedly punched in the stomach. “I’m twenty-seven. I should be swinging from the rafters while having the best sex of my life. I’m not meant to let my vagina wither away like an overcooked clam.”

“Vaginal dryness can be corrected with creams.”

“Please don’t,” I beg.

Dr. Hemway was there for me more than anyone else when hormones switched me from a chubby-faced child with piggy-tails to a raging lunatic who flew off the handle as often as she cried herself to sleep, cradling a hot water bottle. I can’t discuss this with him, however.

He will never be a man who can take a hint. “With the right preparation, sex shouldn’t be painful. If you’re experiencing pain during intercourse?—”

“I’m not,” I assure him, my cheeks inflaming. “Well, I assume I won’t.”

I don’t need to look at him to know he’s giving me his please explain face.

I hold out for almost thirty seconds before the wish for a father figure has me blubbering out a confession I haven’t even shared with my best friend. “I haven’t had sex in a long time.”

“Why?” If his voice were any higher, it would reach the moon.

“Because you said it would be painful, and I’m in enough pain. I don’t need more added to the over-stacked pile. Especially not for a guy with a peanut for a cock. Why bother?”

“I said sex could be painful. It was merely a warning, not an advisory to give up sexual activities as a whole.” He hits the nail on the head when he unearths the real reason for my unexpected sabbatical from an activity I should crave more than my next meal. “Despite your mother’s beliefs, your fertility challenges do not make you less desirable, Zoya.” An unexpected parcel of laughter rumbles up my chest when he murmurs, “To some men, you are all the more enticing.”

“Spoken like a true forty-six-year-old bachelor.”

I call myself a selfish cow when he replies, “Forty-seven.” He nudges me with his elbow before moving for his famous wall of pamphlets. “Don’t feel guilty. My last two laps around the sun seemed to have taken twice as long as the previous forty-five.” He plucks a brochure about living with endometriosis out of the stack before spinning to face me. “I guess that’s a consequence of having more people cherishing each day instead of the standard one.”

My heart does a weird flippy thing when I spot his loved-up expression. “You found your Achilles’ heel.”

I sigh like a simp when he jerks up his chin like I asked a question. “She’s smart, beautiful, and strong.”

“She’d have to be to put up with you looking at vaginas all day.”

That gets a laugh out of him. For as long as I’ve been sexually active, I’ve riled him about being single because no woman would be strong enough to endure the profession he chose to specialize in.

As the years passed, his status never changed, so I wondered if I was more on the money than my teenage self realized.

“I think you’d like Kiara.” Fondness glistens in his eyes when he adds, “She reminds me a lot of you.” I realize he means more on paper than personality when he hands me a brochure on the best sex positions for people with endometriosis. “So if you won’t take my word that sex doesn’t necessarily mean pain for endometriosis sufferers, perhaps you will take Kiara’s word for it.”

He sits behind his desk that’s butted up to the chair concealing my underwear to jot down some notes in my medical file. He refuses to use electronic devices for anything. It is paper all the way or no records at all.

“She swears by pages seventeen and thirty-three.”

My cheeks inflame for an entirely different reason when I flick to the pages stated. The people who put together this brochure left nothing to the imagination. It has some of the best not-suitable-for-work art I’ve ever seen, and I read graphic romance novels like a gym junkie devours protein.

Dr. Hemway rips a handwritten prescription off a pad most doctors stopped using years ago before spinning to face me. “This is a cheaper alternative to the hormone therapy treatment you require.” Before I can snatch the paper out of his hand, he tugs it away. “But you need to be aware that this trial hormone therapy is still under provisional testing. It has not yet been endorsed by the drug administration company. It may not work.” Honesty echoes in his tone when he says, “But anything is better than the nothing approach you’ve been using for the past two years.” He writes out another prescription. “Continue taking oral contraception for the first few months to ensure adequate protection is maintained while your menstrual cycle is suppressed.”

“I’ll still get my period?” I sound disgusted. Rightfully so. I am. If I can’t get pregnant, why should I suffer through menstrual cramps and bleeding for days on end?

He doesn’t look up while answering me. “For the first few months, yes, but they will slowly subside before eventually stopping altogether.” Now he peers at me. “Hormone changes that occur during your menstrual cycle can make the endometriosis pain worse. By stopping them, your pain should decrease. Once it is manageable, we will look at laparoscopic ablation again.”

“How much will that cost?” My desperation for a pain-free existence sneaks into my tone. I could barely afford my last surgery bill, however, and I had medical coverage through my employer. I don’t have that anymore, so I can’t act like he works pro bono.

“The costs can vary, but since the physician determines billing, I’m sure we can come up with an arrangement that will suit us both.”

I appreciate Dr. Hemway’s honesty. If anyone other than him had spoken those words, I would have taken them the wrong way. Since the doctor has looked out for me more than any other adult in my life, I dip my chin in gratitude.

Continued causes for appreciation roll in when he nudges his head to my handbag before he says, “While you get dressed, I’ll let Melita know that I accidentally double-booked today and that you were gracious enough to agree to reschedule your appointment for next month.”

Tingles bombard my nose as stupid tears form.

By saying he double-booked, I won’t have to pay for my appointment. That may not seem like much to most people, but when you’re between jobs and struggling to pay rent, saving two hundred dollars is a godsend.

I’m also super appreciative that he isn’t planning to examine me today.

I’ve avoided his office like the plague for the past two years because I usually always leave in more pain than when I arrive. Dr. Hemway isn’t necessarily rough. He just has giant hands that should have had him rethinking his profession long before medical school.

“Thank you.”

With a dip of his chin, he accepts my gratitude as if it is worth more than the consultancy fee he missed out on today before he exits his office, leaving me to change into the underwear I hid so well in my handbag it takes me almost five minutes to find them.

The delay in my arrival at the reception desk has Dr. Hemway looking at me more suspiciously than I’m used to. The groove between his brows deepens when I trip over my tongue upon spotting the patient the nurse is calling into his consulting room.

Good lord, I’ve never seen such a handsome specimen. His hair is inky and thick enough to lose several fingers in it. His tailored suit showcases every spectacular ridge of his body, and his cut facial features and icy-blue eyes would have even the most menopausal woman believing dryness would never be an issue for her.

This man is divine—and he knows it.

His smug grin enlarges the longer I stare, and the egotism beaming out of him turns so catastrophic that if we were in a nunnery, several women would clutch their pearls.

I’d be frustrated about the I’m-a-hussy vibes I am throwing out if he weren’t tossing out as many come-get-me feelers. He’s eyeballing me with as much interest as I’m serving him, and it sets my pulse racing.

My insides tap dance in victory when his prolonged gawk sees him crashing into the pamphlet table the receptionist restocks each morning. If he were watching where he was going instead of checking out my ass, he wouldn’t have knocked over the sex education pamphlets he should hand out before every hookup. One glance at his sinfully handsome face demands a safe-sex refresher.

Upon hearing the faint giggle that announces I love that I have his head in such a tizzy he almost tumbled, the unnamed man bows his head in defeat before he follows the nurse to Dr. Hemway’s office.

Only after the quickest glance back my way does he enter the sterile-scented space as requested by the nurse.

I take just as long to return my focus to Dr. Hemway. “Sorry, what did you say? I was…” My words trail off when I can’t find an appropriate excuse. Admitting I was eye-fucking a stranger in an OBGYN office seems a little perverse, even for someone as confident as me.

Why would he be here unless it is for the first half of Stoltz and Hemway Obstetrics and Gynecologist Services?

Unless he’s a traveling pharmaceutical representative?

His suit screams corruption, and drug reps are as corrupt as they come.

Mindful I will only get answers from one man. I flick my eyes to Dr. Hemway and then ask, “Is that man a patient of yours?”

“Who?” His blasé response proves there’s more to his chosen profession than he lets on. Even when the very epitome of a man is in the same room as him, his confidence doesn’t wither in the slightest.

I nudge my head to his now-closed office door. “The adonis who was just shown into your consultancy room.”

Since he is still lost, he checks his old-school booking calendar for the patient listed underneath my name. He has such an informal booking process all his patients’ appointments are made with their given names. The one penciled in for the final appointment of the day is under Andrik.

Dr. Hemway’s expression returns to the concerned, fretful one he wore when he first read my results before he slams his planner shut. “That’s confidential.” He guides me to the side of the waiting area. “As is anything you tell me.”

He builds the suspense so well I am tempted to ask if the cream he mentioned earlier also works for your mouth. Mine is suddenly parched.

“Why today, Zoya? You’ve been dodging my calls for months, so to say I was surprised when I saw your name listed on my schedule today is an understatement.”

“I was… uh… I…” Come on, brain. You’re usually more quick-witted than this. “The pain was reaching a level I could no longer ignore.” Since that isn’t a lie, it doesn’t sound like one.

Some of the concern on Dr. Hemway’s face clears. Not a lot. Just a little.

“That’s it? That is the sole reason for your visit to Chelabini today?”

I start my lie with a head bob. “Yes.”

He sees through my deceit instantly, and the disappointing flare it blazes through his eyes cuts through me like a knife.

“I was also hoping to see Aleena. It’s her birthday today.”

Aleena is my baby sister. I haven’t seen her since her last big birthday, and although I will most likely be turned away again today like I was two minutes into her eighteenth four years ago, I couldn’t let her day slip by without acknowledging that I want to be a part of her life.

When I walked out of our family home twelve years ago with a broken heart and a bag full of dirty clothes, I was walking away from our mother’s expectations for our lives, not her.

It was never about her.

Even with Dr. Hemway’s brooding mood announcing his patients’ confidentiality is of the utmost importance to him, I can’t help but ask, “Do you see her? Does she still come here?”

It takes him half a beat to answer, and his reply fills me with more relief than panic. “No.” My relief morphs into hurt when he murmurs, “But I specialize in infertility, and Aleena has never had…”

“To worry about that,” I fill in when words elude him. I smile to assure him the sympathy in his eyes isn’t necessary. “Two very different women cut from the same cloth.” He looks like he wants to strangle me when I push the boundaries of our friendship even further than a mishap in billing. “Has she visited Dr. Stoltz at all the past four years?”

“Zoya—”

“You don’t need to give me any details. Just a simple yes or no answer.”

His delay this time around has me sitting on pins and needles. The additional niggle to the constant pain forever invading my body is worth it when he abruptly snaps out, “No.”

Who knew one tiny word could offer so much relief? The weight on my shoulders seems manageable, and the curdling of my stomach simmers to barely a boil.

My reprieve is short-lived.

Dr. Hemway piles a heap of uncertainty back on when he hands me a card with an appointment for next month, along with a brochure for post-operative care following laparoscopic ablation. It reminds me of the hell I experienced two short years ago.

“You won’t be able to drive for a week or two, so you will need to organize to stay somewhere local after the surgery again.” I haven’t even combed through the minimal list of people I can rely on when he continues speaking, halting my search. “Kiara and I will happily accommodate you if you don’t mind nine p.m. bedtimes and watered-down whiskey.”

His offer knocks me back a step, but I hide it well. “You had me until watered-down whiskey.”

He returns my smile before lowering his eyes to his business card. “My phone number is on the back. I’m only a phone call away if you have any issues, day or night.”

I’m saved from looking like a sentimental shmuck by one of Dr. Hemway’s colleagues asking to have a word with him.

He signals that he will be with him in a minute before returning his focus to me. “Do you have any questions?”

The seriousness radiating out of him has me wanting to say something inappropriate. The reminder of his loved-up expression earlier stops me.

“I think you’ve covered everything. For what you missed, I’m sure your brochures will make up for.” My dramatic fan of the pamphlets I’m referencing isn’t as stellar since I left one-half of them on the desk in his examination room.

Dr. Hemway will always be the only man who can read me.

“I’ll grab it,” I say, interrupting his request for the receptionist to return to his examination room to gather the brochure on preferred sex positions for endometriosis patients.

“Are you sure?” he checks. “Usually the nurses have to drag you into my examination room kicking and screaming.”

“Because you get too much pleasure torturing your patients with below-freezing duck bills and unheated lube to buy heat-able instruments.” My twenty-seven-year-old head pays more attention to the quickest flash of heat that creeps across his cheeks than my seventeen-year-old head ever would have before I remind him that his colleague is waiting for him. “I’ve also taken up enough of your unpaid time.”

“All right,” he caves. “But if you don’t arrive for your appointment next month, I’ll take a temporary placement at Myasnikov Private. There’s no reason for you to live in pain, Zoya, and if the only way I can prove that to you is through forced intervention, I’ll do that. You’re not just a patient to me. You are family.”

I never thought I’d get hit with the feels during a trip home, but his last two comments smack me in the gut with sentiment.

He waits for me to jerk up my chin before he farewells me with a smile and then joins his colleague at the side of the reception desk.

I’m tempted to leave without the brochure he handed me in the examination room. My wailing libido just refuses to accept another voiceless promise.

It has been issued many false pledges the past two years. Almost every one of them involved sex.

I don’t bother knocking when I reach Dr. Hemway’s examination room. His last patient of the day is the very essence of a man, so there’s no way he’d be in a room devised solely to remind women why we will always be the superior race.

If we can survive missed medical advancements for hundreds of decades, we can survive anything.

My breath catches in my throat when my intuition leads me astray. It isn’t solely the rarity of my misassumption leaving me breathless, but also the brochure the mysterious stranger is perusing. He’s stopped at page thirty-three, and his head is as angled as the modified doggy-style position the cartoon characters have adapted.

Since I skipped the examination every woman loathes when visiting her gynecologist, my mood is playful. “It’s all about modifying the incline of entry,” I murmur, startling him. “Well, that was my take on the position the first time I took it in.”

His angered expression slackens when he realizes who is approaching him unannounced, altering to magnetism. I’ve never met a man with so much natural arrogance. It should suffocate in the examination room’s sterile confines. All it entices is excitement, however.

After a second rake of my body, as lengthy as the first, Andrik asks, “Have you tried it?”

His voice makes the hairs on my arms stand to attention and is so thick I’m convinced he is a born and bred Russian. I don’t hear a hint of another accent.

I’m saved from being baked under the intensity of his watch when his snarled top lip reminds me that he asked a question.

I shake my head, too enamored by my body’s reaction to his voice to formulate a better response. It is like hot chocolate sauce drizzled over a generous helping of whipped cream—too sinfully delicious to warrant only one taste.

Andrik seems pleased about my nonchalant reply of my pitiful sex life, so it is only fair that I rile him. “More because I’m having a hard time moving past page seventeen’s suggested position.”

It takes several abated breaths for him to remove his eyes from mine so he can flick through the extensive brochure at a slow, leisurely pace.

I can tell the exact moment he reaches page seventeen. Not only do his nostrils flare, but so does the crease in his trousers.

After working his jaw from side to side, he returns his eyes to mine. Their sheer authority would usually raise my hackles. Today, they achieve the impossible.

They make me horny.

“I would congratulate your husband… если бы я верил, он дает тебе то, что тебе нужно .” He returns to English when my expression announces that I struggle to decipher Russian. “He isn’t, though, is he?” My heart thuds in my ears when he steps closer. Barely two feet of air is wedged between us, but his slow, prowling steps make it seem much more. “Or you wouldn’t look at me how you are.”

“How am I looking at you?” I know how. I can feel the lust doubling the thickness of my veins, feel it slicking my skin with sweat. I’ve just always believed in playing hard to get.

I’m also not sure he is a man I should mess with.

He’s standing in an office predominantly designed for women, yet oozing enough testosterone to make hormone therapy unnecessary.

Andrik’s arrogance feeds off the tension bristling between us. It bubbles it to the point of no return before he says with a smirk, “Like you know no man will ever fuck you as well as I will.”

Sweet lord, his mouth is as filthy as his words make my panties, and although I’d usually give as good as I get, their unexpected dampening has me failing to come up with a single retort.

My silence doubles his egotism. “Even if you try to tell me I’m wrong, I’ll know you’re lying, милая .”

“Darling?” I roll my eyes. “Please. You know nothing about m-me?—”

I choke on my last word when he interrupts. “I know you wouldn’t need a brochure to tell you what feels good if you were my wife.” He stands so close that I can’t suck in a full breath without my nipples grazing his chest. “You’d only ever need me.”

Goose bumps trek over my skin at the image he paints. He has the confidence to pull off his claim, and the looks, but we’re interrupted by a familiar voice before he’s given the chance.

“Is everything okay?”

Andrik’s eyes shoot to Dr. Hemway for the quickest second before he trains them back on me. His gaze is darker now, more morose, conveying the misery in his tone when he replies, “Why wouldn’t it be? Did you not hear the news? My life is only just beginning.”

He doesn’t wait for either Dr. Hemway or me to reply. He stalks through the door separating Dr. Hemway’s consulting room from his examination room, immediately dispelling a hunger strong enough to break through the fear I’ve been hiding behind the past two years.