Page 13 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)

RILEY

T he way he calls me his dirty girl does something to me.

The words slice straight through me as heat spreads across my body like a brush fire in Malibu.

My thighs part on instinct, aching like hell for whatever punishment he means to give.

Apparently, crazy looks good on me.

Wood scrapes as he drags a chair over and settles beside me.

And suddenly, I feel him everywhere.

Figuratively. Not literally.

Because literally, he’s not touching me. At all.

And judging by the quiet clink of silverware and the annoying sound of chewing, he doesn’t intend to.

“Are you eating?” I ask, disdain dripping from every word.

“Yes. Pappardelle with short rib ragù. And it’s delicious. Would you like a bite?”

“But… what about my punishment?”

I can’t believe I just said that. And, nope, not desperate sounding at all.

“I already told you. After dinner.”

I huff the sharp sound of the sexually insane.

“Open,” he commands.

How is it that I’m disappointed that he doesn’t mean my legs?

He wants me to eat.

Well, I’m not giving him the satisfaction.

My chin tips up. “I’m not hungry.”

Yeah. Brilliant fucking move, Riley. Insult the psychopath who’s got you tied up in a fortress.

And because apparently I’ve lost all survival instincts, I stomp my foot. It’s the cherry on top of my death-wish sundae.

His dark chuckle comes from the other side of me now. For a man with size-sixteen shoes, he has the feet of a cat.

Damn it, wear a fucking bell.

“I suggest you eat,” he murmurs, voice so close it scorches. “You’re going to need your strength.”

* * *

For the next hour, he feeds me. Bite after bite, I eat. We don’t speak until the very last cannoli disappears between us—he takes a bite, I take a bite. It’s weird. And natural.

Then the other shoe drops.

“Why were you seeing a doctor?”

I’m mid-bite, still chewing, and suddenly I’m nearly choking on sugar and cream. My throat locks. My pulse jackhammers.

Think, Riley. Think fast.

Slowly, I swallow. “I wasn’t?—”

“Do not lie to me.”

“I’m not.” My words scrape past the lie as I try to sound convincing. “I wasn’t feeling well, that’s all.”

Yeah, morning sickness will do that to a girl.

Then, I embellish. “I have this… thing.”

A fork drops to a plate with a clink. “What… thing? ”

The blindfold stays tight across my eyes, but I don’t need sight to know his heavy, judging stare is nailed to me.

I wince, pretty sure where the word thing is, he’s mentally inserted the letters S-T-D .

Fan-freaking-tastic.

Hang on. If my psycho captor thinks I’ve got a venereal disease, what are the odds he’ll just shake my hand, say polite pass, and send me skipping on my merry way?

For a second, I actually let the thought breathe.

Then reality slaps me in the head.

He’s a psycho. The clue’s in the name.

More likely, Zver will pin it on one of the guards, skip the investigation, and paint the halls with their blood. Then he’ll shove a gallon of antiviral cream up my hoo-ha like I’m a cannoli.

But let me go? Not a chance.

Panic opens my mouth, running before my brain can catch up.

“Hypochondria. You know, people who imagine illnesses. I come from a long line of them.”

Not technically a lie.

Da once told me my great-aunt Tildi diagnosed herself with rabies after being licked by a Pomeranian.

She also carried her will in her purse at all times, just in case a sneeze took her out.

“Seeing a doctor… makes me feel better.”

The silence stretches sharp enough to bleed.

“If you need a doctor, one will be provided. Private. Not that hack.”

“I should get to pick my own.”

He snorts. “If your illnesses are imaginary, Riley, does it matter?”

Touché, evil master. Well played.

“You won’t see that doctor again.”

Dread clamps over my chest. “Is that because he’s dead?”

A beat.

“Answer me.”

“He lives. So long as you don’t return to his office.”

My throat works as I force a nod. “I won’t see him again.”

At least, not in his office.

Fingers crossed he’s still alive and gets me my results.

He wipes a crumb from my lips, his thumb caressing my cheek.

He’s concerned.

I feel the strange need to comfort him. “I’m fine now,” I add, but it comes out defensive. Too defensive.

Another beat of silence.

When he finally speaks, it’s with quiet finality. “You’ll find there’s very little I don’t know about you.”

My stomach twists. I hate how true that feels.

Maybe because part of me is sure he’s right.

“Stop assuming you know me, Zver. You don’t.”

A sound curls from his chest. Not a chuckle, but a dark, possessive ripple. As if my fate was stitched to his the minute we met.

“I know you, Zapretnaya. The shadows you dread. The lies you feed. The taste of your fear when it’s soaked in lust—I crave it. Every beautiful broken edge of you is mine. I worship them all.”

Something fragile cracks inside me. No one’s ever claimed me like this.

Not even Dante.

Then, as if he’s plucked the thought straight out of my head, he asks, “Why do you visit him?”

“Who?”

“Don’t play dumb, Riley. It doesn’t suit you. You know who.”

He knows I visit Dante .

My throat goes tight, and suddenly I’m choking on a hundred truths I can’t tell him about Dante.

That he stole my virginity.

That I hated him right up until I didn’t. And then, it was too late.

That I never got to say I love you when I wanted to.

That his little mafioso heir might have squatters rights in my belly.

I can’t tell Zver any of that.

I can’t let him see that no matter what he does to me, Dante will always be etched into me so deep, not even Zver can carve him out.

My brain scrambles for exits, and I say the only thing I can.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I’m not exactly sure what you want me to say.”

“I want you to explain why you waste your time pining for a man who threw you to the wolves.” His tone sharpens, dark amusement curling at the edges. “Not that this wolf is complaining. His loss is my gain.”

I swallow hard, the words strangled in my throat. It’s a fair question. One I ask myself every time I go.

Deflated, I try to explain. “Dante tried to warn me away from the club that night. I wouldn’t listen.”

He doesn’t reply. Just lets the silence stretch, taut and ugly, until it grates against my skin.

I hear the glass tilt back, the swallow, the pour of another.

The air carries it—scotch. Just like Da used to drink.

Thank God he’s only offered me water.

He’s going through them fast. How many has he had?

When he speaks again, it breaks me.

“You’re wasting your time. Everyday in a graveyard, pining for a ghost. You are worth more than Dante D’Angelo.”

He’s… angry.

And he doesn’t understand.

The graveyard is the one place I can pretend I don’t cry myself to sleep every night. I can pour out my heart with zero repercussions. What does he care?

My chest clamps—fear and fury knotting until something inside snaps.

Zver can own my present, but not this: my past, my grief, my heart. “This is mine,” I spit before I can polish it.

He grumbles, pleased to bait me. “Are you going to stop me from going there?” I snap.

He chews the silence like dessert, then, finally speaks.

“If you want your dark romance with a ghost, go for it. Take the bishop. Make it a ménage à trois.”

“Thanks, I will. And I’ll scream his name the whole damn time.”

A beat.

Then—deeper, guttural—a feral growl. A warning.

“Oh, Dante,” I start in, moaning, arching my back, tipping my head like I’m receiving communion.

Nothing.

Louder now, sharper. Sensual. “Oh, Dante!”

His strike is swift. A fist knots in my hair and yanks. So much harder this time, it rips a squeak from my throat.

Fuck .

“This conversation is over.”

I can almost taste the scotch, his lips are so close.

He wrenches my head back just enough. A sliver of sight slips beneath the blindfold.

And I see him.

Or rather, I see his dick.

Sure, it’s behind his pants, but Jesus, Mary, and Joseph… he’s hard.

Unmistakably. Unapologetically. Hard.