Deceitful Vows (Marital Privileges #2)

36. Zoya

36

ZOYA

W aking up hungover sucks. Bile is burning my throat, my head is thumping, and I’m reasonably sure I’ve only been asleep for a matter of a few hours.

I wouldn’t still feel this drunk if I’d gone to bed eight-plus hours ago. Although I’d give anything for a few more hours of sleep, I’ve got to pull up my big girl panties and suck it up. This is one of a limited number of downfalls to paid employment.

At least I didn’t forget about that.

My memories are shot to hell. Mercifully, it is only for the last fourteen-plus hours.

They’re all a fog. I think I warned Vlad of the imminent tornado about to bear down on him before swallowing tequila like it was water to forget my shameful plea to be picked first, but don’t ask me to place my hand on the Bible and testify to that.

I truly can’t remember. I recall groping, and a leathery strap circling my thighs. The rest of my night is a haze.

I’ve never had such a bad tequila intolerance. It usually takes a bottle or two to drag me to the depths of memory loss. I don’t recall having more than two shots.

After blowing a wayward hair out of my face, I trudge to the bathroom to remove the makeup I shouldn’t have slept in. If my pores can’t breathe, my body will struggle to remove the toxins I forced it to endure last night, and it will make my recovery that much longer.

The jack hammer going to town in my head means I don’t realize the sound of running water is coming from my bathroom until it is too late. A dark-haired devil is in my shower. Regretfully, it isn’t the imp my depraved heart is craving.

“Morning, Sunshine,” Mikhail croons, not bothering to cover up.

There’s enough soap scum on my shower door to maintain his modesty, making the visual more an outline instead of a double-page centerfold spread.

Well, it was until Mikhail switches off the water and steps out of the shower.

He chuckles when I divert my eyes before they can ogle his cock. The naughty vixen on my shoulder isn’t understanding of my heart’s desire not to be pulverized. She stomps her feet in disgust, certain the visual will outweigh any heartache a quick peek would instill.

Mikhail is more like his older brother than I first gave him credit for. Banging guns, firm pecs, and a six-pack that stole my focus long enough that I can’t compare their cocks.

After twisting a towel around his waist, he flicks off the excess droplets of water from his locks with his fingers. It gives it that sexed-up look women love and unlocks my first memory of the day.

“It rained last night.”

The scent lingering in the air isn’t the sole cause of my sudden recollection. It is also how the wetness removes the natural kink in the bottom of Mikhail’s boyish locks.

“It did. We got drenched.”

When his lips quirk at the end of his sentence, I arch a brow. There’s too much ambiguity in his tone for me to let slide, but I’m too hungover to gently chip at my confusion, so I go straight for the jugular.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

Mikhail drags his hand across the stubble on his chin before spinning to face me. “What do you remember about last night?”

“I remember kicking you out.” When his eyes gleam, I mutter, “Yet here you are the following morning, acting like my casa is your casa.” He looks like he wants to interrupt me, but something stops him. “Then I recall going to Vixens and being bombarded by your brother”—I hit him with the stink eye to rival all stink eyes—“ again .”

“That had nothing to do with me. You made that bed when you accepted that douchebag’s invite. Then you wholly fucking destroyed it by accepting another dickwad’s invitation for some X-rated PDA.”

“Huh?” Excuse my daftness. I’m hungover and completely fucking lost. You will barely get two sentences out of me today.

Mikhail smiles like my stupidity is endearing.

It has my elbow desperate to reacquaint with his groin.

Since my expression announces that, he works on eradicating my confusion instead of doubling it. “Douchebag?—”

“Vlad,” I announce, too hungover to continue working out who is whom on the long list of nicknames he uses.

“Vlad wouldn’t take your hint to leave, so you forced the focus off him by…” I can’t hear a thing he says. It isn’t because my brain is being drilled by the tequila worm I forever swallow because I’ve yet to learn I am no longer sixteen. It is because he’s mumbling.

“Speak up, Marshmallow Man. I’m two minutes from barfing, and you look like the type who sympathy vomits.”

His nose screws up before his words come out crisp and clear. “You forced the focus off Vlad by accepting an invitation to participate in a public scene.”

I swallow down the slosh in my stomach a mere second before it makes its way back into the world. “I went on stage?”

“Uh-huh,” Mikhail answers nonchalantly.

“And then…?”

Thank god he isn’t a fan of delayed gratification. “After you were strapped to a sex swing, three to ten men from the audience raced to the stage as volunteers.” I learn he isn’t bad at math when he shifts from foot to foot while murmuring, “It was hard to gauge an exact number. Once gun fire rang out throughout the club, things went a little crazy.”

My eyes pop.

Mikhail’s expression remains neutral.

“The club was emptied in seconds. You were clueless, though.” Another memory sparks when he closes my gaped mouth. “And you drool a fuck ton when you’re passed out.”

I take a moment to sort through the slosh in my head. “Vlad…?”

“Last I saw, he was hightailing it out with the rest of the survivor wannabes.” Mikhail looks annoyed. I understand why when he adds, “He didn’t even peer back in your direction, Sunshine, so you shouldn’t have thrown yourself on the fire for him.”

“I wasn’t doing it solely for him. It was also for me.” Since my reply is honest, it sounds that way. I blow another wayward hair out of my eye before plopping my backside on the closed toilet lid. “I found Andrik’s marriage contract last night.”

Air whizzes out his nose like he now understands the catalyst of my rebellion, and the genuine shock on his face announces he wasn’t the one who placed it in Andrik’s jacket.

“It implied that his marriage isn’t about love.”

Again, he makes an agreeing hum.

It shifts to a shocked huff when I murmur, “And Andrik hinted the same when we… spoke . He told me he hasn’t been with anyone since me.”

It takes him a beat, but eventually, Mikhail clicks on to the cause of my hesitation. “You don’t believe him?”

“I want to,” I murmur. “But?—”

“You’ve been burned in the past?”

I nod before trying to make my ghosts appear less pathetic. “And it’s not like he has a monkey’s butt for a face. Even if his wife knows the terms, I’m sure she’s trying.”

“Trying…?” Mikhail appears utterly lost.

“To…” I make a hand gesture he immediately clicks to.

“You think she wants to fuck him?” He takes a minute to contemplate. “She could be trying, but that doesn’t mean he’s falling for her tricks.”

“He fell for mine last night.”

“Because you’re you.” He gives my ego a moment to bask in the glory of his stroke. “I told you that you changed him. You flipped his life plan on its head.”

“He said that last night too.” I breathe out slowly before nursing my thumping head in my hands. “And that I’ve had him backflipping on promises he made thirty years ago.”

For the first time since I’ve known him, Mikhail is quiet.

Several seconds tick by, and disgustingly, the silence adds to my throbbing temples.

After a lengthy deliberation, Mikhail asks, “Can I see his contract?”

Shocked by the unease of his question, I slowly nod. “It’s in my room?—”

He’s out the door before all my reply leaves my mouth.

Either he can speed read or he skims over the prominent parts of the contract like I did last night, because in under thirty seconds, he races for the stairwell, taking Andrik’s marriage contract with him and leaving me to wade through my confusion alone.

Several hours later, a knock sounds at my door. Since I assume it is Mikhail, I don’t bother checking the peephole. I swing open my door, leaving myself defenseless to a brutal onslaught.

It isn’t Mikhail or his older brother.

It is their father.

What the?

“Mr.…” How do I not know Mikhail’s surname yet? My snooping best friend would be horrified.

“Ellis,” he introduces, letting himself in. “You can call me Ellis.”

“Okay.” I sound lost. Rightly so. I am. “How can I help you, Ellis? If you’re here seeking Mikhail, he?—”

“I’m not here about Mikhail.”

He takes in the trinkets on my mantel in a manner his youngest son would be proud of before he turns on his heel to face me. He balks as sternly as I did hours ago when he takes in the massive teardrop diamond on the necklace Andrik gifted me last night. Its heaviness announces its intricate design is made up of a lot of carats. If it is real, it would have cost Andrik an absolute fortune.

I wish I would have realized that before I went gung-ho with a quest to be picked first.

Ellis’s voice is full of angst when he says, “I am here about your involvement with my firstborn son.”

I wait for him to elaborate, unwilling to tiptoe over the trap he’s setting, let alone stomp through it.

It is an extremely long thirty seconds that only ends when I break it. “Andrik?—”

“Is married.”

I swallow to ease the burn that didn’t fully soothe even after emptying my stomach’s contents into the toilet seconds after Mikhail left.

That’s one part of my conversation with Andrik I haven’t been able to brush aside as easily as my jealousy. I thought he was married as implied by Ellis just now, but last night, Andrik spoke as if he’s not yet exchanged vows.

I’m so confused it takes Ellis growling at me to remind me that he’s standing across from me.

“I am aware of that.”

“Yet you still throw yourself at him at every available opportunity.”

His tone is offensive, so naturally, I take offense.

“No. I’ve tried to stay away.”

He scoffs like he doesn’t believe me. For some reason, it hurts as much as it did when my mother didn’t believe a single thing I told her.

“You came to his hometown. His hotel. Had sex in the elevator of his building and let him have his way with you in the driveway of his country estate before doing god knows what at his club. But I’m meant to believe you’re not throwing yourself at him?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer him. “How many times has he been here ...”—he screws up his nose like my name leaves a bad taste in his mouth—“Zoya, right?”

My timid head bob makes me feel naked, because although he asks for my name, he refuses to use it.

“How many times has he been here?”

“Your son?—”

I learn who Andrik gets his bossiness from when Ellis shouts, “How. Many!”

Just like Vlad, Andrik doesn’t deserve my loyalty, but I still give it to him. “None. He hasn’t been here at all.” My voice is just as loud, my anger just as apparent. I hate lying when I’m unsure if the person I am being deceitful for deserves the intervention, and Andrik’s motives have me unsure which side of the fence I should be on.

“So that entails that you’re the issue, not him.” Ellis glares me up and down like I’m dog poo his shoe picked up at the park. “So you also need to be the solution.”

“Andrik—”

“Will never get divorced, leave his wife for you, or save you from this.” He waves his hand around my apartment. “You are a gimmick. A sex toy with a pulse. You’re the whore keeping his sheets warm while?—”

I slap the words from his mouth.

He reacts opposite to Andrik when struck. His face reddens with anger as his teeth grit. But I am the only one left gasping for air when he asks, “How much will it take for you to walk away from my son and never look back?”

“I don’t want your money.”

He acts as if I never spoke. “I can organize transfers to another country, new passable IDs, and grant you access to resources you’ve never had in your life.” He bobs down low before whispering in a chilling tone, “I can free you from your cage, little bird. I can set you free.”

“I’m already free,” I snarl, my tone as deadly as his glare, my anger just as rife. “So get the fuck out of my house before I steal more than just the devotion of your little minions.”

Ellis returns my glare for several heart-thumping seconds before he straightens his spine, pulls a business card out of the breast pocket of his suit jacket, and then stuffs it into the beak of the dusty duck Mikhail pointed out weeks ago.

“My offer expires in seven days.” He heads for the door while grumbling under his breath. “The next one won’t be issued to you. It will be for you.”