Deceitful Vows (Marital Privileges #2)

37. Andrik

37

ANDRIK

“ A re you mad?” Zakhar wiggles his tongue around his mouth, wetting it for the long Q-tip a doctor is about to scrape along the inside of his cheek, before he returns his focus to me. “You seem mad. Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” I reply, my tone curt and brutish.

When he arches a brow and purses his lips, I mutter a cussword under my breath.

In my anger, I forgot how receptive he is to liars. He can spot a deceitful man from a mile out. I’ve used his skills to my advantage more than once in the past month and hope to be able to do the same for many years to come.

After attempting to slacken the tightness of my jaw and failing, I say, “I’m not mad at you, Zak. You’re not the issue.”

Since my reply is honest this time, he believes me. “I’m glad you’re not mad at me, but you shouldn’t be mad at anyone.” He continues swishing his tongue when his words come out huskily. “Mommy says life is too short to be angry.” His eyes water when he peers down at the cords taped to his tiny chest. “I guess she was right. I’m not surprised. Mommy is always right. She is very smart.”

When he tilts his head back as per the doctor’s instructions, causing the wetness in his eyes to trickle past his ears, I hate myself more than I ever thought possible.

He is wired up to the hilt with monitors, and on more medication than men twenty times his age, yet I’m more concerned about getting his DNA verified than finding a solution to the predicament I placed him in when I tipped off the Ivanovs about Irina’s organs being sold.

Dr. Abdulov and Dr. Azores won’t be able to give Zakhar a new heart because they’ll be dead by the end of the week, possibly sooner if Matvei passes on the information I gave him to his eldest brother before he arrives in Russia.

Furthermore, I don’t need a test to know Zakhar is a Dokovic. He looks so much like Mikhail and me I’ve often wondered over the past month where the last thirty years went. When I stand across from Zakhar, it’s as if I’m back in the closet of my bedroom, hiding from a life I promised Mikhail and myself we’d never have to live.

I had no clue how many lies I’ve told in my life until Zakhar refused to believe my fib that I replaced Dr. Makarand with a colleague more specialized for a patient with his condition.

From the look he gave me, you’d swear he was conscious when my anger that I’d been manipulated saw me popping a bullet between Dr. Makarand’s dark brows.

A rare smile tugs my lips at one side when Zakhar giggles from the Q-tip scraping the inside of his mouth. “That tickles.”

Heat colors his face when he hears the response I can’t hold back from his croaky laugh rumbling through my chest. It’s an expression I gave often before my fifth birthday. It was only ever directed at one person. My mother.

I jerk my chin up in acknowledgement when the doctor who swabbed my mouth earlier like my DNA hadn’t been burned off with a gallon of whiskey says, “I’ll have the results back as soon as possible.”

Once he leaves, I pour Zakhar a glass of “vodka” to help with the tickle the swab caused the back of his throat.

“More, Zak,” I demand when he only takes the tiniest sip. “We need you fit…”

“Like a fox,” he murmurs, stammering through the spit the slightest slosh of water caused his mouth since he’s struggled to swallow the past few days.

His failing heart is his biggest health battle, but its downfall means the rest of his organs are slowly following suit. He is mere weeks from death.

“Like a fox,” I quote, struggling to speak through the guilt about the steps I’ve taken thus far.

Whether he is my son or not, Zakhar is a child. I should have never placed my needs before his. I’m a man. An adult. I’m not a child hiding in a closet, waiting for his mother to come back.

I stop filling a glass with real vodka when someone bursts into Zakhar’s room unannounced despite numerous requests from his childhood nanny for him to do the opposite.

Mikhail’s eyes widen to the size of saucers as they flick between Zak and me, and his mouth gapes like a fish out of water. In under a second, he sees what I saw—another innocent victim of our father’s.

Zak finds Mikhail’s expression hilarious. “You look like you need to go poopie.”

“I feel like I need to go poopie,” Mikhail replies when Zakhar’s boyish laugh snaps him out of his trance.

He mouths, What the fuck? to me before he moves closer to Zak’s bedside.

As he drinks in Zak’s undisputed Dokovic features, I signal for the two guards I placed at Zakhar’s door to stand down. Mikhail isn’t a threat to Zakhar any more than I am.

I can’t issue the same guarantee for anyone else currently residing under my roof.