Page 19 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)

RILEY

T his is where it all goes wrong.

Terribly. Catastrophically. Wrong.

The day started innocently enough.

Cookies with the kids.

A little gentle prodding to see if they’d spill about Zver without his mask.

Which, of course, went nowhere.

Katya gave me a mashup of Flynn Rider’s grin, Gaston’s chest, and a tattoo that magically changes position all the time.

She topped it off with a dreamy sigh. “I love bad boys.”

Apparently, she and I both need therapy.

Misha swore he’d seen Zver without the mask. His version leaned more fairy-tale prince, riding merrily across castle grounds on a horse. Or a unicorn.

Or a Harley.

But then he offered me a spoonful of cannoli dip, and I nearly puked on the poor kid’s head.

Which is how I’ve landed here, staring down a man for whom murder is muscle memory.

The nausea is only getting worse, and not knowing if a living piece of Dante D’Angelo is planting his pitchfork inside me is enough to push anyone past rational thought.

Especially with tomorrow looming—my actual, no-shit am-I-about-to-be-a-mother results with the doctor.

So before I defy both Zver and Dominic— again —I need to know if the man is even still breathing.

Because the swelling in my feet…

The way my boobs feel like they’ve been strapped to a helium tank…

And I am freaking the fuck out.

So, is it reckless to storm Zver’s secret-not-so-secret lair like this?

Absolutely.

Am I half using it as an excuse to catch him without the mask?

You bet your ass I am.

What I did not expect…not by any stretch of the imagination…

Was him.

Three-piece suit.

Shirt undone.

An erection stretching the length of the Magnificent Mile.

He opens his desk, pulls out a ruler, and snaps it against his palm.

The crack ricochets through me, sharp and sudden, sending my pulse spiking too fast, too high. My knees threaten to buckle, and I clutch the edge of his desk just to stay upright.

It’s my living, breathing fantasy.

Zver. As a filthy headmaster.

So wrong. So hot.

But—

Wait. A. Damn. Minute.

My brow pinches as my brain scrambles to catch up. “You… you read my journal.”

“You came into the East Wing,” he says smoothly, leveling the ruler at me. “Call it even.”

My breath stutters. I drag my tongue across dry lips.

“I just want…”

The words die when his hand slides into his pocket.

Jesus. Is it getting bigger?

“Tell me what you want, Pom.”

Pom.

My world tilts, dizzy and disorienting.

He called me Pom.

Dante’s nickname for me. The one I’ve scrawled hundreds of times across my journal pages.

I still, and look closer. Too close. Into Zver’s eyes, two pools of endless black, dark and devouring.

They’re nothing like Dante’s cold, ice-blue gaze.

But they hit just as hard.

Steel. Fire. An inferno roaring behind the mask.

Is it?—

Stop.

This is madness. He’s not Dante. Dante is gone.

Dante wouldn’t have abandoned me for two months. Wouldn’t have cut me off from my sister.

And if I ripped back Zver’s sleeve, I wouldn’t find a serpent coiled in black ink. I’d find a skull. Roses. Proof that he’s not the ghost I want him to be.

I blink hard, pushing past the fog and the tears threatening to break free. I won’t let them fall.

Dante is dead.

And Zver… Zver is the enemy.

I square my shoulders, shaking off his mindfuck. “I want to know if the doctor is alive.”

“And I want to know when you’re finally going to get it through your stubborn head that you don’t call the shots, Pom.” He spits my name like a curse. “So either you’re here for your well-deserved punishment, or leave and let me work.”

Leave?

No. I can’t. Not until I get what I came for.

Shit. What do I do?