Page 173 of Deceitful Vows

“Shh. You’re okay,?????. I’ve got you.”

After pulling back bedding similar to the one I forced Arabella to sit on for hours so the person controlling her strings would believe her ruse to seduce me had been successful, I place Zoya down and then cover her naked body with the bedding.

Her head wound is so bad blood trickles past her ears and puddles into the pillowcase quicker than the shirt I ripped off in a hurry can soak it up.

“Hurry!” I scream, confident I’ll murder everyone in this godforsaken town if their negligence kills Zoya, preferring to blame anyone but myself.

A stout doctor with a chin far hairier than his head wobbles into the room, warping the floorboards more than Zoya’s tiny frame did when she snuck across my room to watch me in the shower.

That’s when I should have stopped. The instant my instincts alerted me to the identity of my stalker, I should have removed my hand from my cock and ended the madness.

I should not have put on a show that encouraged Zoya to do the same.

“You need to hold her hands down for me.” I glare at the doctor like he’s insane and barely shake my head when he adds, “I need to stop the bleeding. I can’t do that if she fights me at every turn.”

I don’t get in a second headshake. “What the fuck?” sounds from outside my room before Mikhail races in to fulfill the doctor’s demand on my behalf.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” the doctor assures Zoya when she groans about him piercing the edge of her wound with a big-ass needle. “This will take away the pain and numb the area so I can close the wound with a handful of stitches.” He continues pushing down on the syringe until all the liquid inside is gone before he cranks his head to me. “Is she on any medication? Are there any medical conditions I need to know about? The wound is large, so she may need additional sedation.”

“It is a little late to ask now, isn’t it?” When Mikhail silently pleads for me to calm down, I shake my head. Its briskness slows when I remember what I unearthed earlier today. “Unless Zakhar’s heart condition doesn’t affect some siblings until later in life.”

“I don’t believe Zakhar’s condition is hereditary,” the doctor advises, straying away from Dr. Makarand’s theory. “But I will give her a full workup after I’ve cleaned and closed the wound.” He shifts his eyes to Mikhail, aware he is the more stable one of our duo right now. “Will you give us the room?”

“No,” I instantly deny, answering on behalf of Mikhail.

“Andri—”

“No,” I reply louder, glaring at my brother. “I’m not leaving her. Her injury is my fault, so I need to make sure she is okay.”

Anoushka reminds me that she is in the room with us when she squeezes my shoulder. “She fainted, Andrik. That isn’t your fault.”

She can say that because she doesn’t know how hard I pushed her—how much I hurt her.

When Zoya whispers my name again, her voice as pained as the remorse ripping my heart to pieces, the doctor grants me permission to stay.

It’s for the best. He’d be dead at my feet the instant he knotted his last stitch if he had attempted to force me from the room.

“Leave them. I will bring the dirty ones down in the morning.”

The housekeeper Anoushka sent up to change the bedding dips her chin in understanding before quietly backing out of my room.

The scent of Zoya’s blood seeping into my mattress is the reason I don’t want the sheets changed. I need the putrid scent to make it through the night unscathed as much as I need it as a reminder of how badly I fucked up.

When the mattress dips under my weight, Zoya groans before rolling onto the hip opposite her head wound, pulling the sheets away from her body. The doctor doesn’t believe she is concussed. She is merely sleeping off the sedation he gave her.

“She will wake when she is ready,” he said four hours ago.

I’m tempted to poke her, needing to see her eyes to know she is truly okay, but you can only be an ass every so often or it will become a permanent part of your personality.

I learned that the hard way too.

“Hush. I’m just making sure your wound doesn’t join your eyebrow to your hairline,” I tell Zoya when she protests to me pulling back the strand of hair draped across her forehead, needing something to distract me from her budded nipples. You would swear she can feel my beady watch for how erect they’ve become.

The doctor went with stitches instead of glue because a majority of the wound is covered by Zoya’s hair. To glue it together, he would have needed to shave her head. He changed his mind when I said I’d kill him if he altered her features even in the slightest.

An unexpected smirk curls my lips when Zoya murmurs, “You hush. I’m trying to sleep over here.” Her voice is groggy but sexy as fuck.

I should let her sleep, but as I said earlier, I’m desperate to see her eyes.

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