Page 23 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)

RILEY

“Y ou sure you don’t want me to go with you?”

Dominic’s hovering again. I can’t decide if it’s the protective streak or the nosy one, but either way, he’s crowding me.

The cemetery used to be my reprieve. Quiet and all mine. But ever since that shit-tastrophe of a doctor’s appointment, he’s been keeping me on a tight leash.

His eyes sweep the lot, shoulders pulled taut. “The gate’s open.”

I hesitate.

I pause.

He’s right. Odd because it never is, not unless there’s a funeral. And with only three cars dotting the cracked asphalt, that feels unlikely.

The problem is I prefer it empty, and Dominic knows it. No witnesses. No awkward stares when I’m caught talking to air. Or screaming at it.

Still, I shove the hesitation down. If the doctor’s here and I miss him, I’m screwed six ways to Sunday. And I’m already fifteen minutes late.

“It’ll be fine,” I murmur, trying to slide past his scowl. “Be back in an hour.”

Dominic moves in front of me, solid as stone, arms crossed.

I blow out a breath, handing him the scrap of compromise he wants. “Fine. Thirty minutes. Tops.”

He gives me a single nod. Good enough.

I take it and run.

I’m barely out of sight before sweat pours. Not a glisten. A full-on, dripping mess.

The sun beats down, merciless. Or maybe it’s just me and my possibly preggo body burning like a furnace, cranked to eight hundred degrees.

Normally I’d stroll past the century-old headstones.

Not today. I’m full-out sprinting.

And two breaths from blacking out… or hacking up a lung.

Leaves crack under my shoes. Branches lash my arms, snag my hair. Fine. At least something’s running a brush through it today.

By the time I round the mausoleum, I’m doubled over, clutching my side, sweat sliding down my spine.

But it’s worth it.

Because he’s here.

The doctor.

“Oh, thank God.” I collapse against the wall, fighting to catch my breath.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink. He just stands there, foot tapping, eyes narrowed.

“Where the hell have you been?”

I blink through the haze, lungs on fire. “Sorry.” Pant . “I’m—” pant - pant . “—a little late.”

Frustrated, he scrubs a hand through his hair, pacing. “You have no idea what I’m risking to be here.”

“Well, that makes two of us.”

That’s when I see it—his other hand, wrapped in gauze, stained with the rust of dried blood.

Zver’s words slam back like a hammer: I let him live.

Shit . My eyes squeeze shut. I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I?—”

The doctor exhales slow, like he’s forcing the edge out of his voice. “It’s fine. I’m just…on edge.”

He reaches into his pocket. When his hand comes back, it’s holding a folded sheet of paper.

“Your results.”

I tear it from him before I can stop myself, drawing a shaky breath, and read.

One word jumps off the page.

Positive.

In a single word, my world detonates—shattering everything under me. My knees give out, the mausoleum wall scraping cold against my spine before I hit the ground.

I fold in on myself, clutching my knees to my chest.

What the hell am I going to do?

Breathe, Riley.

Just fucking breathe.

The doctor doesn’t kneel. Doesn’t reach for me. Doesn’t even check if the pregnant woman hyperventilating on the ground is okay.

Nope. He just stands there, blank and useless. Until he finally opens his idiot mouth.

“You sure he’s the father?”

What?

Great. Just what I need. Dr. Peanut Gallery chiming in while a million things slam through my skull in one vicious rush:

A baby— my baby—is being thrown into a mess it never asked for.

A gilded cage with an ocean view where the bedtime story is How Not to Piss Off Your Captor, Vol. 1.

A real bookstore my kid will never know because freedom sure as hell isn’t part of our two-for-one package.

And Zver…

I choke on a sob as Zver’s voice tears through my thoughts, clean and sharp. In an instant, the storm inside me stills.

Pom.

What’s he doing here?

No. Not now. I don’t want him here now.

I’m spiraling. And I need Zver’s voice out of my head.

“Well?” the doctor presses, because apparently assholery bares repeating.

I glare up at him. This fucking man, badgering me about paternity. I want to tell him to mind his own goddamn business.

But shock answers for me.

“Yes,” I utter quietly. And once again, I have no idea why I just said that other than right here, right now, I’m completely devoid of logic and good decision making.

I’m too busy wrapping my head around the whole impending baby mama situation.

The doctor stares at me for a moment. Just lifts his chin, eyes sharp with a kind of manic certainty. “Well, you need to get away from him.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

He slips a hand into his pocket, voice flat and clinical. “I know what that guy is like. That man’s insane. If he finds out you’re carrying a child, he will snap.” His eyes flare, hands cutting through the air. “He’ll kill you. I know he will. You and your baby.”

The words slice like knives, sharp and merciless. What’s his deal? I can’t tell if he’s concerned, or completely unhinged?

Either way, his bedside manner is atrocious. Zero stars.

I’m so irritated I almost laugh in his face. Tell him Zver doesn’t scare me. That he’d never go that far.

But… then I see his bandaged hand. God, what if Zver finds out I’m carrying another man’s child. Is he wrong?

On instinct, my fingers find a jagged pebble, pressing until the sting cuts deep. Pain sharpens the edges, grounds me enough to think.

Zver isn’t exactly a live-and-let-live kind of guy. His toolbox has exactly one tool.

Death.

He’s not the let’s talk this out type. He’s more of a finisher.

And don’t even get me started on sharing?

Especially not when it comes to me.

My stomach knots, acid clawing up my throat.

Maybe I should convince him this baby is his?

How, Riley? Immaculate conception?

I’ve had baby-making sex exactly once and it wasn’t with him.

The doctor’s words seep into every crack of my insecurities, lodging where I’m weakest. My baby.

I press a hand to my temple. I can’t lie to Zver. He’ll see right through me. And if words can’t save me—can’t save my baby?—

…maybe my body will.

Maybe the only way we live is if I don’t just tell the lie.

I sell it.

Make Zver believe this baby is his by crawling on all fours straight into his bed.

Riley, Riley, Riley… how exactly are you pulling that off when his bedroom’s in the East Wing and you’re basically on the no-fly list?

The doctor shifts, suddenly uneasy. His eyes dart across the graveyard.

He’s so jittery, you’d think he was the one knocked up.

“Come with me. I can take you somewhere safe.”

Safe? I almost laugh. There’s no safe. Not with this necklace shackled to my throat, GPS included.

Not with Zver.

“I’ll be fine.” The words come out too easy and practiced. Maybe because I’ve whispered them to myself more times than I can count.

Will my child have to learn that too?

The subtle art of lying.

“You sure?” Suddenly, he’s pacing, boots crunching over dead leaves, shoulders twitching like he’s about to crawl out of his own skin. “Come on.” He’s one breath away from begging.

What he doesn’t get is, it’s not an option.

I shake my head.

Now, he’s towering over me, finger stabbing at my face. “If you don’t come with me right now, you’ll be sorry.”

I can’t tell if it’s a threat or a warning. Both piss me off.

“No.”

“Zver’s crazy. He killed Dante D’Angelo.”

The world stops. What did he say?

Zver.

Killed.

Dante.

Why would he do that? I can’t believe it. I won’t believe it.

Before I can process anything, the doctor grabs my hand. “Now, let’s go.”

I snap it back. “I said no.”

That’s when all hell breaks loose. He lunges, fingers clamping around my arm.

“Get the fuck off me!” The words rip out of me, raw and jagged, shredding the graveyard hush.

But he doesn’t let go.

I grab a fistful of dirt and fling it in his face, wrenching free.

For half a second, I’m on my feet and ready to run.

His grip slams back down on my shoulder, savage, bone-snapping hard.

White-hot pain tears through me. The sound comes first—a choked, broken cry—before it shreds into a scream.

And then?—

“I suggest you get your hands off the woman,” a lethal voice cuts through, “unless you’d like me to make art out of your brain on this wall.”

The click of a gun cocks.

I freeze.

Because I know that voice.