Page 4 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)

RILEY

“T he doctor will see you in two weeks.”

The receptionist’s voice drips sickly-sweet, perfectly matching her aggressively peroxided hair and bubblegum-pink lips. She beams at the woman ahead of me.

A woman I’m trying very hard not to stare at.

I force my eyes from the gentle swell beneath her dress, and the nauseating glow radiating from her face. And the tall man beside her shifts closer. Possessive fingers span the small of her back, whispering promises of forever without saying a single word.

She’s everything I’m not.

Loved, protected, and wanted .

When his lips brush her temple, a vicious pang slices through my gut.

I suddenly hate him. Hate them both. But Dante? Dante climbs to the top of the list.

“Dying was incredibly inconvenient of you,” I mutter, teeth clenched.

Maybe I’m cracking. Or maybe hormones are the devil’s amphetamine—pushing me to the edge of a cliff, promising a sweet little breakdown.

I’m not sure which I’m closer to: tears or violence.

Either way, the two glance back over their shoulders, and make me feel as welcome as a hooker on Rodeo Drive.

I deliberately shift my gaze any fucking where than the happy couple, and glance around.

This place is white-on-white everything. Pristine marble. Fluffy carpet that probably costs more than my first apartment.

My condolences to the cleaning lady. And then I see the clock. Shit. I’ve been here fifteen minutes.

The couple finally moves along, and I step up.

“Can I help you?”

“I need to see the doctor,” I say, suddenly rushed.

She frowns, underwhelmed.

“It’s important.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but?—”

“The doctor is very busy. He sees no one without an appointment.” She barely lifts her eyes from her laptop, wiping away a speck of dust.

When I don’t shuffle away obediently, she punctuates her point by popping her gum—obnoxiously loud. The echo of it grates on my last nerve, considering the lobby is empty.

“It’s urgent,” I insist.

She shrugs and points a glittery three inch nail at the door. “There’s an urgent care a mile down the road.”

Stressed at the mental tick-tick-tick going off in my head, my fingers tap nervously against my necklace.

By her glare, the diamond prison choker must be an ironic contrast to my sweats and jeans caked beneath the cemetery grime.

Hell, there’s probably a spider spinning a web in my hair right now.

“I just need ten minutes of his time.”

Ten minutes feels safe.

Barely.

And every second wasted on convincing Nurse Peroxide to squeeze me in drags me closer to whatever sadistic punishment Zver is dreaming up.

And I refuse—absolutely fucking refuse—to lose my newest Sins and Sorcerers novel before finding out if Adeline finally stabs her nemesis in his sleep or falls pathetically into his twisted bed.

It’s already hovering dangerously between love triangle and full-blown reverse harem, and I am not losing that book.

She flicks her gaze over me, eyes narrowed into irritated slits. “He’s fully booked. No walk-ins.”

My heartbeat kicks into double-time. “Fine. Then I’d like an appointment.”

She rolls her eyes so hard I’m shocked she doesn’t dislocate something. Snatching a clipboard, she shoves it my way. “First opening is in eight weeks.”

Eight weeks? Is this a doctor’s office or a Taylor Swift concert?

I can’t wait eight fucking weeks to find out if there’s actually an Italian-Scottish Cinnabon baking in my oven.

Yes, I took a test. Many, many tests. But considering my history with hair dye—and my disastrous tenth-grade green-and-calico locks—I wouldn’t put it past myself to have fucked every single one of them up.

I need a second opinion. From an actual professional.

“Fill this out.” Nurse Peroxide taps the clipboard in my hands.

My gaze darts down the form. Name, address, insurance.

Can’t give it, don’t know it, and sure as hell don’t have it.

Abort! Abort!

Somehow, through the pulse hammering against my brain, a voice breaks through.

Dante’s.

All hard edges and broody impatience, reminding me how he tried to knock some sense into, as he put it, my “stubborn-ass skull.”

Well, screw it. Time to weaponize that stubborn streak.

Calmly, I plaster on a smile and flutter my lashes, voice smooth and innocent. “Sure thing.” My gaze sweeps the lobby dramatically, chewing my lip. “Where’s your bathroom?”

She taps bright neon-pink nails impatiently against the passive-aggressive sign next to her desk.

No Public Restrooms

“I’m filling out the form.”

“You’re not a client yet.”

My Scottish, take-no-shit DNA flares to life. Fuck playing Mr. Nice Guy.

I sway, pressing my hand to my forehead. “I feel faint.”

The nurse arches a skeptical, perfectly penciled brow. “Nice try. I’m not falling for that.”

I hunch over, moaning like I’m gonna hurl. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

“What?”

“Oh, and I’m guessing your janitor swings by once a week, tops. So when they’re not around, you’re the janitor.”

When she doesn’t budge, I add, “Ever seen projectile vomit? It’s like abstract art.”

She calls my bluff. “You wouldn’t dare.”

I clutch harder. “I had a gas-station burrito for lunch.”

Her face blanches, clearly picturing the horror of regurgitated bean-and-cheese sludge splattered across every immaculate inch.

That’s right, lady. I’ve been imprisoned by a Russian butcher, might be carrying a dead mob king’s heir, and I’m strapped to a million-dollar geo-tag.

Do not fuck with me.

“Down the hall,” she grinds out. “Last door on the left.”

I murmur a weak, mockingly grateful, “Thank you.”

I storm down the hall, flying past the bathroom and the abandoned exam rooms—all six of them. Yes, clearly, the doctor couldn’t spare ten minutes from his packed schedule.

By the time I reach the last door, I’m out of time and fresh out of fucks.

I twist the handle, shove through, and?—

“Come in, Riley.”

There’s a man in a white doctor’s coat, but he’s not the one speaking.

It’s Dominic.

My blood instantly freezes, every nerve ending seizing from my lungs to my toes. Dominic has always been the picture of lukewarm composure. Not overly warm, but not one to fly off the handle.

Exactly what you’d expect from the right hand man of a killing machine.

But now? Now Dominic looks dangerously close to murder. I’ve never seen him like this—never seen that ruthless edge carved into each line of his face.

And I sure as hell have never seen him holding a gun.

He stands rigid, a pistol gleaming coldly against the doctor’s temple, eyes lit with barely leashed fury.

Before I can choke out a single word to salvage this disaster, the door clicks shut behind me.

I spin around, startled, breath catching in my throat. My pulse turns to ice, heartbeats stumbling violently against my ribs.

“Zver.”