Page 65 of Deceitful Vows

He accepts the invisible microphone I’m offering him thirty seconds after spinning around a porcelain duck so its beak faces the wall instead of me. “My ma disappeared when I was four.”

When he shows me a duck identical to the one he just spun around yet three times dustier at the back of the stack, I shrug before signaling for him to get back to his confession instead of the stupid ornaments that hold not an ounce of sentimental value.

He places the dusty duck in front of the newer one before doing as suggested. “She was pregnant.” He scratches his head. “I’m not exactly sure how far along. It would have been a few months, as she’d learned the sex of the baby not long before she disappeared.” I’m shocked when delight is the first emotion he expresses upon announcing he was going to have a baby sister. “We have a long succession of boys in the family, so I was looking forward to having someone not related to me by blood to pummel.” My brows barely join when he commences eradicating my confusion. “She would have had boyfriends, and it would have been my job as her older brother to vet them. I doubt there would have been a better way to do that than with my fists.”

I love his protectiveness.

It makes me swoon—maternally not sexually.

My heart does its second drop of the night when he mutters, “I would have been a good big brother.”

Would have?

Mikhail must hear my silent question, because he jerks up his chin before his focus returns to the trinkets. “It’s weird to think I could have been batting you off me with a stick instead of the other way around.” His smile reflects in the mirror above the dust collectors he’s rearranging. “I couldn’t have dated my little sister’s best friend. That’s just nasty.” He treats my ornaments as if they’re his own before cranking his neck back to me. “In case you’re wondering, I have no issues accepting my big brother’s leftovers?—”

I hook a pillow off my couch and throw it in his face before he can finalize his reply.

It has Mikhail laughing like we weren’t discussing missing family members as the rotors of a helicopter hover closer than ever.

23

ANDRIK

While cursing Mikhail to hell, I slam down my laptop screen. “I knew this was a bad idea. He was meant to return her belongings, not debug her fucking apartment.”

I’m not speaking to anyone, but Konstantine replies as if I am. “He won’t touch her. He only wants to protect her.”

There lies the issue of my jealousy.

For the first time in my life, I don’t want to saddle the white horse my brother uses to ride in and save the day. I want to straddle the beast and slay the dragon before rescuing the princess from the tower.

I want the accolades I never waited around for even after my greatest victories.

I want to be the hero of the story instead of the villain for a change.

But I can’t alter a story when not even half of it has been written.

My narrative is still in the plotting stage. There aremanypages left to comb through. So as much as I want to skip to the alternative ending I never saw coming while suffering through a prologue no child should have to face, I need to give this tale the chance it deserves.

I must see it through—even if it kills me.

“Reestablish surveillance at the earliest convenience. I want eyes on Zoya twenty-four-seven.” By I, I meanI. “Make sure I am the only person who has full access to her surveillance feed. The fewer people aware she is being monitored, the less likely the feed will be infiltrated.”

Konstantine lifts his chin, his eyes never moving from his laptop screen. His inability to maintain eye contact makes sense when he asks, “And Mikhail? What do you want me to do with him?”

It takes a long time for anything, excluding death, to enter my head, and even then, the plan is indicative. “I will deal with him.”

I don’t know how or when, but I’m sure we will eventually come to a head over his inability to follow orders.

I’d just rather it be when he’s not grieving.

Even my strength struggles to reach its full potential when my head is buried in the remorse of my past, hence my lack of involvement in organizing surveillance for Zoya.

It is easier to deny your every want when it isn’t being flashed in your face.

One sniff of Zoya’s scent in her apartment and I once again wanted to backtrack on every decision I’ve ever made.

I would have if I hadn’t been called by my family’s physician minutes after tracking down the thug who mugged a woman by knifepoint before adding Zoya’s minimal belongings to his takings.

---