Page 81 of Deceitful Vows

It tells my head what my body was trying to express only moments ago.

That Andrik owns my orgasms as much as he does me.

I will never let him know that I’ve worked that out, though. The instant he unclamps my mouth, the first thing I’ll tell him is that I will never be his.

I just need him to stop eating me. Stop consuming me. Stop making me feel so wanted that I don’t care how many baby mommas or wives he ends up with.

He doesn’t, though. He continues devouring me as if I am his favorite dessert until I scream his name into the tattooed hand muffling my mouth and then collapse from exhaustion.

29

ANDRIK

Iwake with a monstrous hard-on.

That isn’t unusual. I am in my peak sexual prime. But this one is different. It isn’t morning wood that will go down in a minute or two. It’s not even an erection inspired by the hope of sexual gratification. It is my body’s response to the closeness of his mate, and how making her orgasm over and over again was more satisfying than any release I’ve ever achieved.

I wanted to come last night. I wanted to fuck away the frustrations that have been bombarding me for the past month. Like all my greatest plans over the past four weeks, the urge flew out the window the instant I realized why Zoya couldn’t bring herself to climax.

She doesn’t want some random’s head between her legs.

She doesn’t even want my brother’s.

She only wants mine.

The knowledge had me banging my chest like an ape—and acting like one too.

I wanted to make Zoya scream my name so loud it would ring in my ears for a week. Mercifully, with barely a second to spare, I remembered that my needs aren’t the only ones I’m striving to answer.

There are ears everywhere. As stated previously, they more than triple when the king is in court.

My grandfather is in this region of Russia for a reason, and as much as I want to pretend that isn’t true for a few more hours so I can relish the taste coating my lips and fingers, I can’t.

The faster I play this game, the quicker I will win.

Zoya murmurs when I pull my arm out from underneath her before replacing my chest with a pillow. I’m still mostly clothed. I only removed my jacket when the image of Zoya with her eyes fluttered shut and her cheeks flushed made the conditions too stuffy to ignore. I toed off my shoes a second before climbing into bed with her. The rest of my clothes remained untouched.

It is cool this morning, but a nonoperational AC unit isn’t the reason I pull Zoya’s covers up tight. It is the beady watch of my little brother. His lower back is balanced on the wrought iron railing of Zoya’s shared balcony, and his sleeping pants are low enough to expose he’s still not a fan of underwear.

“You don’t think you should wake her before sneaking out?” Mikhail asks when I collect the shoes I left near the armchair in the corner of the room.

I join him on the emergency exit stairwell. “No.” My reply is curt. It can’t be helped. I hate having my authority questioned. It is worse when it comes to Zoya. “She needs sleep. She is exhausted.” And how the fuck am I meant to explain something to her that I don’t even understand? I tried last night, and I miserably failed to make sense of anything.

I usually strategize my games to the wire, but for the past four weeks, I’ve been flying blind. I went from caring about nothing but revenge to sheltering so many people I’m worried there won’t be enough space for everyone under my umbrella.

I won’t lose—it isn’t in my vocabulary—but it is near impossible to pull off a solo victory when you’re playing a team sport.

Zoya learned that the hard way last night.

I glare at Mikhail when he mutters, “She wouldn’t be so exhausted if you told her the truth.”

“And what exactly is that truth, Mikhail?” I snap out before I can stop myself.

He doesn’t answer me because he can’t. I’m sheltering him from the burden until I can ensure it won’t affect him how it is affecting me. That he won’t face the same level of liability he was forced to endure during his childhood. I need to make sure he isn’t burned time and time again like he was when he was Zakhar’s age.

Zak is sick. I don’t know if he will survive, so why subject Mikhail to the heartache of his existence until I know for sure? He’s lost so much already. First his mother and his sister, then any other sibling the federation deemed unsuitable for the Dokovic name. They were all pushed aside and downgraded. Some were killed. Mikhail only made the cut because he wasmysole reason to obey.

When I rebelled against their rules, Mikhail was beaten as if he were disobedient.

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