Page 48 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)

RILEY

Y ou know how you can tell the person next to you is certifiably insane?

When she’s giggling hysterically at her own reflection in the window.

I don’t interrupt.

I’m too busy sawing at the zip tie with its jagged edge, carving into my own thumb until flesh gives way.

And fuck me, it feels so good.

I dig deeper than I probably should. I’d love to say I’ve had enough practice with twisted thrills to know where the line is.

But I don’t.

I’m just carving in as far and deep as I can, trying to hold it together—for me, for my baby.

That sharp bite of pain, the way it sinks in, has always shoved the fear back. Grounded me. Forced my brain into a detached, focused state.

And right now, I need to focus.

My gaze fixes on the blood, dripping down my fingers, trailing across my palm. I watch it slide, slow and steady, before I smear it up and down my thigh, staining my skirt.

The van’s been driving so long I’m not even sure we’re still in Illinois. I work methodically, drip after drip, until the sting flares past pain, to control.

And when it tips from delicious pain to full-blown agony—when I think I can’t peel off another shred of skin—I snap.

Hysterics rip out of me. “Oh my God! Help! I need a doctor, now!”

Elena twists in her seat, red lipstick smeared into a grin that dies fast. Her eyes sharpen, astonishment curdling into something truly bizarre. Curiosity. “Are you… having your period?”

Psychosis and idiocy. Like bread and jam with her.

“No. I’m pregnant. Remember?” My voice climbs, brittle and raw. “I could be losing my baby. Please—you have to take me to a doctor. Now.”

“That’s not on the agenda.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure money won’t be on the agenda when you hand Andre a broken toy instead of Zver’s baby.”

Her smile falters. Steam practically pours from her ears as she thinks it over.

Tick-tock, crazy. Any day now. Work with me.

Finally, she huffs out a breath and dials. Not on speaker, so I only get her half.

“She says she needs a doctor.” A pause. Her voice drops into a whine. “I don’t know. She could lose the baby, I guess.”

Silence. Heavy. Silence.

She glances back at me, eyes sharp, calculating. I let my body slump, every ounce of fight draining out of me, playing weak.

Inside, I am a mama bear to my sweet little cinnamon bun. Hang on. Just hang on. It’s gonna be okay.

“Yeah. I can take her there.” Her tone flips, casual, as she snaps the phone shut. She leans toward the driver. “Head to the doc.”

No acknowledgment, no wasted words. Just a hard right at the next light.

I don’t know how long this detour will last, but in my head I start running contingencies.

Maybe the doctor’s someone I can reason with. Someone I can beg for help.

Or at the very least, I can scout the exits.

I’ve run from Zver so many times, in so many ways, my chest tightens with something dangerous—hope.

Don’t worry, little one. Mama’s got this.

* * *

An eternity later, we finally pull up.

Relief flares, small but sharp. I know this place.

And I know the doctor.

Granted, last time I saw him he was a total whack job—but maybe, before his little tête-à-tête with Enzo scrambled his brain, he really was trying to help me.

I’m not sure I can trust him. But what choice do I have?

I’m forced out of the van, through the lobby, and down the hall before I’m shoved into a room.

The doctor steps in, his gaze dragging from my head to my feet before locking on the blood.

He licks his lips.

Eww.

“Wait outside,” he orders Elena.

“Make sure you don’t kill her,” she warns.

“I’ll do my best.”

She slips out.

His gaze snaps back to me, catching on the zip ties. For a split second I think he might actually help—until he barks, “Sit. Down.”

I do.

He lifts his bandaged hand, crimson seeping through the gauze. “Your boyfriend did this.”

“If he did, why the hell is it still bleeding?”

He snarls. “He made me stitch my own hand.”

Oh, fuck.

“Give me a reason—any reason—to hurt you, and I will. If your baby wasn’t so precious, you’d already be dead.”

I stay quiet.

No sudden movements. His eyes are blown wide, bloodshot, twitchy. And that white dust smeared around his nostrils? Not flour from a midnight croissant run.

He reaches for a tank, twisting the knob with slow, deliberate precision. I’m no doctor, but I’m pretty damn sure that’s anesthesia.

If he knocks me out, it’s game over. They’ll know I faked the bleeding.

And I’m pretty damn sure I’ll wake up in a Hannibal Lecter pit of despair, minus the complimentary lotion.

I let out a moan. “ Ow . It hurts.”

Nothing. Not one fucking reaction from Doctor of the Year. Shocker.

I groan again, louder this time, curling forward. Close .

I can almost reach it—the scalpel glinting on the tray.

“Shut up!” he snaps.

My fingers brush the handle, but I need to bend just a little further. I make it as convincing as I can.

“Argh!”

He whirls, hand raised, ready to slap me. “I told you to shut up.”

My fingers clamp the scalpel, and I drive it straight into his other hand. He’s nearly useless now—one hand mummified in bandages, the other skewered clean through, like a vampire staked through the heart.

Unfortunately, he still has his mouth. He cries out, “Hey?—”

I cram gauze between his teeth, then slap the anesthesia mask over his face.

One minute.

That’s all it takes before he’s out cold.

I bolt for the door, fingers on the handle—when her voice slices through.

“Everything all right in there?”

Shit.

Silence.

Then, I drop my voice so low it sounds like my balls just dropped. “Fuck off.”

I hold my breath.

Nothing.

I stand frozen. Beyond this door—two massive guards and psycho bitch.

Slowly, quietly, I flip the lock and creep toward the sliver of a window.

It’s high up. Narrow. And impossibly small.

But it’s my only shot.

I drag a heavy chair across the floor, the steel legs shrieking against the linoleum like a goddamn siren.

“What’s going on in there?” Elena calls.

I ignore her and climb onto the chair. The latch clicks easy, but when I peer out, my shoulders sink.

From this side of the building, we’re two stories up.

Too fucking floors.

The doctor starts to stir.

And then I see it—pure terror seizes me as he clamps his teeth around the scalpel jutting from his hand.

Groggy and with a guttural groan, he bites down hard and rips it free.

Fuck .

I summon whatever scraps of courage I’ve got left and wedge myself through the gap, shimmying out into open air.

A pounding rattles the door. The handle jerks, violently loud.

This is it. No more time. No more options.

I grip the frame, eyes locked on the awning below, praying I can hit it.

I suck in a breath and send up a prayer—to God, to Da, to Dante, to anyone who might be listening.

Please. For me and my baby. Let it be alright.

And then… I jump.