Deceitful Vows (Marital Privileges #2)

9. Andrik

9

ANDRIK

M y steps into the living room of my brother’s penthouse slow when I detect I am being watched. Being eyeballed like I perform tricks for coin is nothing out of the ordinary for me. People as old as dirt and as fresh as a newborn baby forever watch me. It started at my fifth birthday party and has continued to grow along with my reputation for being a tyrant of a man over the past thirty years.

It is the disapproval in the gawk, however, that has me on the back foot.

People are usually too scared to project their wrath in my direction, even when I am the perpetrator of their suffering.

There’s only one man foolish enough to not hide his disdain.

My little brother, Mikhail.

His shirtless torso is leaning on the overhead cupboard in his industrial-sized kitchen, and he’s nursing a mug of freshly brewed coffee.

I don’t need to ask if he knows I used his bachelor pad for the very reason he purchased it. I felt his beady eyes on me seconds after he engaged the alarm on his prototype motorcycle.

The first emotion he portrayed when he learned his bed was warming two bodies instead of one was smugness.

It was quickly followed by annoyance.

I thought it was because he believed his sheets were smeared with the cum of the woman he left kneeling for hours on end to test her obedience, but learn otherwise when he nudges his head to a wad of envelopes on the kitchen island.

“They were delivered to the hotel this morning. Figured you must have been here since you failed to show up at the bar last night.”

He folds his arms over his chest, doubling my smirk. Intimidation is not Mikhail’s forte. He can charm the panties off any lady he wants, but he’s shit at staining the briefs of our competitors. It’s why he sticks to the operation and maintenance side of our company’s extensive real estate portfolio.

I’m the muscle and the brains.

“What the fuck are you doing treating my crash pad like a brothel, brother ?” He spits out his last word like we won’t have words about it later. I don’t tolerate disrespect from anyone… except from perhaps her.

“You told her she had free range.” I fan my hands out like the pompous prick my mother’s disappearance caused me to become. “I took full advantage.”

I laugh when my reply angers him enough that he grips the lapels of my suit and pulls me to within an inch of his face.

He can be angry all he likes. He knows as well as I do that Zoya wasn’t interested in what he was offering.

I combed over the footage of their first and only meeting for hours this morning.

The truth never wavered.

Mikhail invited Zoya here because he knew I wouldn’t be able to resist, so he has no right to be angry that I acted exactly as predicted.

When I say that to him, he loosens his grip before pushing me back with enough force that I crash into the island.

As I glare at him, I straighten my suit jacket while striving to fight the urge to settle our disagreement with my fists. It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve come to blows. Doubt it would be the last.

“When did you realize she was who I was seeking?”

I called Mikhail during my drive to the Sakharoff residence. I wanted to know if Zoya was local, and if she was, how the fuck did she fly under the radar for so long? I haven’t classed Chelabini as my hometown for years, but my family is well-known here. My call went to voicemail. The interrogation I hit his voicemail with, however, remained on point.

I smirk when he answers, “You wear desperate as obviously as every other man.” He places his mug into the sink before spinning to face me. “But I guess that’s over with now? You never hang around long after the deed. I was surprised to find you still here this morning.” His expression doesn’t match his tone. He looks cocky but sounds uneased.

“Perhaps,” I shockingly reply.

I’m usually out the door before my cum has cooled in the condom I knot and take with me, so perhaps Mikhail is right. Maybe something is off-kilter with me, but sitting around and talking about it is the equivalent of sawing off my cock and handing it to my competitor’s wife instead of fucking her with it as well as I plan to fuck over her husband—lackluster and pointless.

Mikhail doesn’t feel the same way.

“Perhaps?” His voice is loud enough to wake half the continent. “What do you mean perhaps ?” His eyes widen as his mouth gapes. “You’re still going through with that ?” He nudges his head to the wad of envelopes Dr. Hemway must have delivered before the sparrows woke when he spits out the last word. He must read something on my face I didn’t mean to express. “Are you fucking insane? You got the cream of the crop and enough chemistry to rival an atom bomb, but you’re going to toss it aside for a spineless слизняк born solely for procreation?”

Now it’s my turn to pin him to the kitchen cabinet. I don’t give a fuck what he calls the women bred to line their parents’ pockets with money. It is his mention of the sparks firing between Zoya and me that I pay the most attention to.

I tighten my grip around his throat before leaning in close enough for my spit to sizzle on his red cheeks. “You better not have seen a single snippet of her skin or not even your last name will save you.”

Mikhail likes to fuck. When he’s not fucking, he likes watching other people fuck. He has all his favorite possessions wired up with surveillance for that exact purpose. My cock was just too fucking obsessed with how good Zoya smelled to remember that last night.

It still is.

“I didn’t see shit. I turned off all surveillance when she slapped you.” It is not the time for my cock to twitch. It can’t be helped. Zoya’s gall is one of her sexiest assets, not that I will ever tell her that. “But I saw enough to know you’re a fool if you think you can replace her with one of those… robots .”

Since I observe nothing but truth in his eyes and tone, I let him go. It is a fucking hard feat. My blood is boiling black. I’m struggling to work out which way is up. Now is not the time to fuck with me.

“I’m not letting her go for anyone.” I should have taken more time to consider my next sentence before expressing it because it sounds wrong even to someone as unapologetic as me. “But I won’t get the answers I’m seeking without someone who can supplement what she lacks, so I’ll?—”

“Supplement what she lacks?” Mikhail shakes his head in disgust. “Fuck, Andrik. Here I was thinking you were nothing like them.” I’ve been called every name you can imagine, but his scold burns hotter than any before it when he sneers, “How fucking wrong was I?”

I want to tell him he is wrong, or better yet, ram his words back into his throat with my fists, but since I stupidly care for the brat who’s refused to let me forget a single birthday since my mother’s disappearance thirty years ago, I veer our conversation in a way I never anticipated it taking.

“Zoya is infertile.”

Mikhail balks for half a second before understanding settles on his face.

What the fuck?

“It kind of makes sense.” He shrugs like what he’s implying is as regular as brushing your teeth every morning. It’s fucked to admit I agree with him when he adds, “She would have been shacked up and knocked up years ago if she didn’t have any… issues .” He wets his lips like he is remorseful for his last word, but regretfully, he doesn’t keep his mouth shut. “Fortunately for me, I have no intention of following their rules, which means ankle biters won’t enter the equation when I woo her back into my bed, minus my spineless brother?—”

My fist cracks into his nose before another word seeps from his lips, and it takes everything I have not to hit him for a second, third, and fourth time when he remains quiet.

Although the blood gushing over his lips could excuse his lack of retort, I don’t believe a bloody nose is the cause of his silence.

He’s pleased I reacted how he wanted me to—because it is the only thing that will convince him that I haven’t become a direct clone of our father.

While pretending a hundred thoughts aren’t running through my head, I work my jaw side to side. Not all my thoughts center on how deep I’ll bury Mikhail if he tries to make true on his threat. They just take center stage.

After a beat, I ask, “Do you have any pain medication here, or do I need to get some delivered?”

“It’s fine. It doesn’t hurt,” Mikhail lies, assuming I’m seeking pain medication for him.

I’m not.

“It isn’t for you, dipshit, though you should probably take something.” The pretentious gleam I’m striving to ignore in his eyes flares brighter when I mutter, “It’s for Zoya.”

I’ve had women say they couldn’t walk straight for a week after being bedded by me.

This is the first time I’ve cared if the rumors are true.

“Top left.” Mikhail nudges his head to a cupboard behind me before he moves to fetch a tea towel for his nose and a clean mug out of the dishwasher I stacked last night for Zoya.

A coffee pot suspends midair when I say, “Orange juice. She can swallow them with orange juice.”

He takes my snappy tone in stride with only the slightest grumble. “If you want to make your cum taste sweeter, you’re meant to drink pineapple juice, fuckface.”

“Citrus juice alleviates the pain associated with her condition?—”

I snap my mouth shut way too late.

The cat is out of the bag.

I seek Mikhail’s nuts in his throat when he says in a high-pitched tone, “You researched her condition?”

“No, I didn’t.”

He doesn’t believe my lie for even a second. “Is it reversible?”

“No.”

Again, he sees straight through my lie I’m not even sure is a lie.

From what I researched last night, the prognosis of Zoya’s diagnosis differs between patients. Some have no trouble getting pregnant with a bit of help. Others never will.

“What does she have to do to fix it? Surely orange juice isn’t the only solution.”

I snatch the glass out of his hand and fill it with fresh OJ. “Nothing. There’s nothing she can do.”

“Can you even lie straight in bed anymore, Kazimir?” He uses my given name on purpose. He wants to piss me off. “You have the girl of my dreams in my bed, yet you’re acting like she’s far from your highly impeccable standards.” He air quotes his last three words. “Fuck the bro code. You didn’t give a shit about it last night when you noticed she had my keys, so why should I give a fuck about the two minutes of attention I’ll need to award her with to help her get over you?”

There’s nothing nice about my hold this time around, nothing brotherly to it. It is the grip of a murderer, and one that leaves my little brother so breathless he scratches at my hand, certain he is moments from death.

Once his lips turn a fascinating shade of blue, I loosen my grip. Not a lot. Just enough to ensure his panic is low enough he will hear the sheer honesty of my words. “If you touch her, I will kill you.”

For some insane reason, I want to protect Zoya. The easiest way to achieve that would be to keep her as far away from my family as possible.

That isn’t something I can do.

Zoya Galdean is mine, and I’ll annihilate anyone who implies otherwise. I just can’t announce that publicly until I fix the monumental fuckup I initiated last night that has nothing to do with bedding the woman I’m certain will destroy me.