Page 11 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)

RILEY

I hate that the chair’s arms are smooth. No grooves. No splinters.

Nothing to dig into.

My fingers twitch against the aged wood, wrists fighting the silk binding me down. It’s triple-wrapped and knotted so tight, I might as well be gorilla glued to the damn chair.

Two of the guards did the honors. All brute force and no finesse. Heavy-handed, fast, and their eyes trained everywhere but on me.

Smart move, considering I doubt Zver would forgive anyone gawking at his favorite toy.

Which is just as well. This dress is paper-thin, and the room’s cold enough, if they did look, my nipples alone would take out an eye.

The split second they leave the room, I yank like hell. Not some delicate little tug. A full Godzilla thrash.

The silk doesn’t budge.

“Gah!”

By this point, I don’t need to be free. I just need a sliver of control. A nice, sharp edge I can sink my flesh into so I don’t freak the fuck out.

Is that too much to ask?

And yes, I know tearing my fingertips is stupid. Habit, not logic. But pain is the only thing my mind ever listens to. Dante got that. He turned pain into worship.

What burned between us wasn’t mercy. It was fire. If the pregnancy tests are right, that spark has a life in it now, and it’s about to become a raging inferno.

I try not to think of that and suck in a breath. I drive my nails into the pads of my hands, hunting for a shred of skin to steal back some sense of command.

Kennedy’s voice hisses in the back of my skull. If you keep biting your nails, you’ll regret it.

Truer words, sis.

I hate that you’re right. Hate that you’re always right. And most of all, I hate that you’re not here when I need you most.

I huff and sit.

And sit some more.

Time thins until it’s just a stretched wire, humming under my skin.

My eyes wander the room. I’ve studied this place to death: stone arches rolling up and away, vaulted ceilings carved in a pattern that catches light like a crown. Enormous picture windows that should stare out over a cliff’s edge, a view ruined by night.

The kind of wealth passed down by blood. Or taken by it.

For a blink the coat of arms hooks me. I study the Russian glyphs I can’t read, hunting for the story they’re pretending to tell.

Two blades torn through crimson and gold. A serpent strangling a skull. A blood-red rose sprouting from crossbones.

It’s brutal and ridiculous and… breathtaking.

But it’s hardly what I’d call a coat of arms. We Scots keep things simple: part zoo, part armory, part don’t-fuck-with-us .

The silence ticks along to the point I bend down and try prying the knots with my teeth. Because obsession and I, we’ve always had a thing.

And yes, this is definitely a punishment. So very Zver.

Swift death for his enemies.

Slow torture for me.

Usually, he strips away my beloved dark rom-coms and alpha shifters while I sleep. Truly, the man’s a monster.

But he always leaves one thing behind. My journal. Probably because he enjoys cracking it open and crawling around in my head.

And just in case he does, I give him every filthy fantasy I can conjure up.

Headmasters and rulers.

Forced dirty confessions.

Strip bargaining, where I take off all my clothes and he sheds every last piece of his, including the mask.

Which then detonates into an enemies-to-lovers rage so scorching it reads like a pornographic burn book.

Today’s entry practically writes itself, though it’s definitely more of a psychological thriller.

Pissed-off Zver.

Sat in silence for freaking ever.

Pretty sure I hear a Chianti being uncorked and lambs screaming.

The door creaks.

Is it him?

Each stomp hammers the room and my pulse until the beats blur together.

I don’t even know if it’s him. Maybe Ricardo was the warm-up. Maybe it’s someone else. Someone worse .

Then, out of nowhere, a blindfold clamps over my eyes. The yank snaps through me like reins on a wild stallion.

My body explodes. I buck against the chair, wood shrieking, heels skittering, every muscle firing for an exit.

Until two steady hands slide down my shoulders and, impossibly, my body obeys. Calm sweeps through me as my body stills.

Then his voice. That low, indulgent Russian voice. “I love your defiance, Zapretnaya . Every ounce of it makes me crave your taste.”