Page 67 of Deceitful Vows

“I might have believed you were sleeping if your nose wasn’t twitching like a rabbit,” I whisper in Russian. “Sweets are like hearts. Designed to be devoured. So why don’t you stop pretending to be asleep and see what I brought home for you.”

Zakhar’s lips twitch into a smile before he slowly opens his eyes. There’s so much pain in his baby blues, so much hurt, but he smiles large enough to showcase his wobbly tooth is holding on by a thread.

You’re not the only one, tooth.

“How is your tooth still in your mouth? I told Anoushka to put concrete in your cookies. It should have yanked it straight out.”

My eyes shoot to the side when a low voice mutters, “He’s been too unwell to eat.” My father moves out of the shadows he was hiding in, his agility too silent for a man of his size. “He’s barely keeping down water.”

I try to make out his comment didn’t dry my throat too much for me to speak. “That’s because it’s water.” I shift my eyes back to Zakhar. “Real men don’t drink water. We drink vodka from goblets carved out of our enemy’s bones.”

“Like our ancestors did,” Zakhar adds, playing his part of the ruse we’ve perfected over the past two weeks.

“That’s right.” I move to the bar a notable Russian is never without, where I pour from a crystal decanter filled with filtered water instead of the alcohol my veins are currently demanding. “Water won’t give us hairs on our chests and our…” I finalize my reply with an arched brow.

Zakhar giggles like he’s not on his deathbed when I pull a face like Anoushka is two seconds from swatting the back of my head.

I hand him one of the glasses I filled and clink it with mine.

“To Russia,” I cheer, my full-blooded accent on display.

“To Russia,” Zakhar mimics before he swallows barely a mouthful.

“More, Zak. You don’t want the one measly little hair Mikhail has on his chest, do you?”

The weight on my shoulders slackens when he fires back, “No. But I don’t want to be a gorilla like ??, either.”

“A gorilla? You think Pa is a gorilla?” When he nods, I mimic the slow stomp of a ridgeback before tickling his ribs. “He’s only a gorilla to make sure his hands are big enough to tickle your ribs until you pee your pants.”

He bucks and rears like it’s not taking everything he has to respond to my tease before he shouts for a clemency I rarely give. “Mercy! Mercy!”

I’m not usually a man who offers leniencies, but since it is for him, I pull back my hands before telling him to finish his “vodka.”

“We need you as fit as a fox...”—we lock eyes over the rim of his glass—“and as hairy as one too.”

24

ZOYA

Nerves tap dance in my stomach when I veer my borrowed ride down a paved driveway that stretches for over a mile. We’re only forty miles west of Myasnikov, but I had no clue their wealth extended this far. Mansions are dotted on pristinely maintained acres, and several of them have helipads and Olympic-sized swimming pools as one of their many features.

When the tension gets the better of me, I check the address the employment broker wrote down with the one cited on the GPS. It is a match.

The knowledge does little to settle my unease.

It feels like I’m driving toward a tornado instead of away from it. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing to attention, despite the wetness of my nape, and a peculiar sensation is making my stomach a swishy mess.

My jitters are understandable when you learn of my past. I’ve yet to meet a pleasant rich person. Still, I usually portray an aura of confidence. I haven’t been this nervous since I showed up at Aleena’s twelfth birthday with ripped jeans and a handmade card.

I breathe out a handful of butterflies in my stomach when a message from Nikita pops up on the screen of my ride’s fancy navigation system.

Keet:

Chin up. Chest out. You’ve got this.

I picture her eye roll while speaking my reply to Siri.

Me:

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