Page 28 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)

ZVER

I shouldn’t see Riley right now. I’m too on edge.

Half the time, I can’t decide whether to throw her over a knee or slam her up the nearest wall and fuck her until she bends to my will.

Nothing good can come from this.

Not that it’s stopping me.

I storm up the steps and reach her door, fighting the urge to kick it off its hinges.

She needs to trust me. She needs to stop hiding pieces of herself like I won’t find them. And I know if I storm in like a battering ram, I lose that chance.

Yeah, too fucking late.

The door slams open. I half-expect to find her burying her emotional scars in bed, lips wrapped around a cannoli, nose buried in a book.

I shove the door open, already half feral, the word snapping out before I can stop it. “Pom!”

I’ve managed to forget the Russian accent I’m supposed to wear like a second skin. Good going, genius.

Thankfully, it’s only the one word.

Dumbfounded, I scan the room.

The bed is empty.

Sheets still untouched.

Her latest shifter-smut novel sprawled dead center on the mattress, mocking me with its dog-eared corner.

God, woman. Use a bookmark.

I know she hates doing it as much as I hate seeing it. Guess her imagination’s run dry with ways to fuck with my head.

I’m halfway to turning around when it hits me. A soft, broken sniffle that cuts the silence in two.

I turn.

And there she is.

She’s curled in the corner, knees tucked to her chest, shoulders quaking with silent sobs she's desperate to smother.

Her hair falls forward, veiling most of her face, but I still see her. The tremor in her lips. The swallow that steals each sound.

The fragile way she’s holding herself together just to keep from shattering apart.

When I walked in here, I was ready to tear into her. Drag the truth out by any means necessary.

Now, all I want is to gather her up and hold her.

I do neither.

I shut the door and cross the room.

For once, she doesn’t bristle at my presence. Doesn’t bare those sharp little teeth.

It's easy to forget how young she is. How innocent.

My pulse kicks up a notch. Is she hurt?

Or worse?—

Is it the baby?

The thought twists through me, and something cuts so sharp, so brutal, it drags out a feeling I haven’t touched in years.

Helplessness.

I crush it down, locking it in irons.

And because I’m not exactly fluent in the subtle art of couple’s communication, when my voice finally rips free, it lashes the air like a whip. “What happened?”

She doesn’t react. Which annoys the shit out of me.

My tone dips, softer at the surface, edged like a blade just beneath. “Pom?”

There’s no venom in her voice, no snap of defiance. Just a fragile, broken whisper. “Go away.”

I shove my hands into my pockets, the gesture a pathetic excuse for restraint.

Calm , I remind myself. Must stay calm .

But calm’s a runaway horse—long gone and out of reach.

I exhale hard. “Explain what happened.”

“No.”

Christ, this woman will bury me alive. The way she dances on the razor’s edge of my last nerve, it’s maddening.

Infuriating.

And so goddamned beautiful it aches.

I want to shake her. To reach down her throat, rip the truth straight out of her lungs, and end this torture-fest.

But then, I think of Trinity. My sister.

And the memory of her hits like shrapnel. The way it always does.

A brutal reminder of how easily a strong grip can crush glass to dust.

So instead of brute-forcing it out of her, I slide down the wall and sit beside her. Close enough to feel her warmth bleed into the space between us, but not to touch.

“Talk to me.”

“I don’t want to.”

My stubborn little vixen.

“Well, I’m not leaving until you do.”

The silence stretches, thick and punishing.

Minutes grind to over an hour. Then, two. Her shoulders quake, tears streaking unchecked, while my patience fractures one jagged crack at a time.

Every flicker of her lips looks like the start of a confession, but she swallows it back, again and again.

And I thought I knew torture.

Finally, right before my last shred of sanity burns out, she speaks. “Did you kill Dante?”

Fuck, how do I even answer that? Lying comes to mind. But I don’t.

“I had to.”

She looks up. When her eyes meet mine, the anger she’s ready to hurl falls away like a jagged stone she can’t quite bring herself to throw. “How could you?” she asks. Hurt and curious, she’s demanding answers.

The same answers no one ever gave me when my sister was attacked or my father was ripped away.

So I give her the truth. “His death was inevitable, Riley. There was no avoiding it. No prolonging it. I made it quick. And as painless as I could.” My shoulders slump, defeated. “There was no choice.”

“There’s always a choice.”

“Not this time.”

She angles away, but I can feel the battle raging inside her. Part of her understands, and part of her still wants to rip me apart. But what thrums in the air between us is quieter, and too real to be ignored.

I’m telling the truth, and she knows it.

For a long moment, we just breathe. Exist in each other’s orbits with no will to fight. Close enough for me to lean in and give her my heart.

“If I could bring Dante D’Angelo back to you, trade my existence for his, I would.”

“I hate you,” she murmurs.

“Love is fragile. Hate is brutal. Give me either, Pom, and I’ll burn down the world for you.”

Two weepy red eyes look up. “Why?”

“Because I would die for you, Pom.”

Silence.

She doesn’t leave.

And neither do I.

Then, in the softest whisper, she speaks. “I miss my sister.”

The words are soft, but they slice me open all the same. A whisper that spears straight through my chest.

Not defiance.

Just grief.

The truth is, I miss my sister too. My brothers. My blood. It feels like someone carved out half my heart, and though it still beats, it aches, and every breath becomes a chore.

She lifts her hands, helpless, shoulders collapsing inward. “I miss Kennedy so much it hurts. I keep pretending it doesn’t bother me—the whole never seeing her again—but it does. I don’t know if she’s okay. If she misses me, too. If she’s strapped in a big, fat gilded cage the same way I am.”

Okay, that one stung a little.

“And it’s killing me.” She sobs some more, and it guts me in ways bullets never have.

Before I know it, my hand slides into hers. Cold skin, damp with tears.

For once, she doesn't pull back. I stroke tender circles in the back of her hand and she lets me.

“You think she doesn’t think about you?” I ask. “You’re her blood. Of course she thinks about you.”

Her chest hitches. “Then why does she stay with him? I told her… her husband killed our Da.”

I’m at a loss for words. There’s no way to explain that away, even though I know there is an explanation. But it’s Enzo’s to tell, not mine.

So I grab a box of tissues and hand it to her. For once, I just listen.

“Somebody once told me that maybe… she loves him.”

Technically, that somebody was me. Or rather, it was Dante.

And it’s true.

Kennedy really does love Enzo…the poor, sick girl.

I wrap a hand around Riley’s shoulder, and she leans into me without a fight.

Will miracles never fucking cease?

I breathe her in, the sweet traces of honey and rose, and for a moment, I just let myself breathe.

Then I remember the baby inside her. Our baby. And the danger circling them both like wolves at a door.

Reality slams back in, reminding me why I came here in the first place.

I need answers.

And just like that, I rip our closeness away.

“Dominic mentioned gunfire. And a man… someone fighting with Enzo D’Angelo.”

Her whole body goes rigid, tension snapping through her like a brittle twig.

I lower my voice, soften it against the storm waging within me. “I need to know what happened.”

She lifts her head, those big green eyes searching mine, weighing me, trying to decide if I’m safe to trust.

And when her hand drifts protectively to her belly, I get my answer.

I’m not.

“He’s just a guy,” she says finally, lying through her teeth. “They fought. Enzo apparently won. I was just… caught in the middle. But then I saw my sister?—”

Before I can press her for more, she speaks and she’s so broken.

A fresh wave of tears break free. “When I lost my father, I thought I lost everything. But losing Kennedy… right now I just feel so… alone.”

She’s not alone.

Why can’t she see that? I’m right here.

I take her hand, press her palm flat against the hammering of my chest.

Pom is unraveling, piece by piece, in front of me—a flurry of razor-sharp cuts across my heart.

This carefully crafted life that promised her protection isn’t a cage. It’s a coffin, and it’s killing her.

I know what I have to do.

Even if it destroys me.