Page 5 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)

RILEY

C asually, Zver leans against the closed door, arms crossed, stone-faced beneath his mask.

In the exact moment my head should be clear, my reckless gaze slips over him.

His towering frame.

The raw power rippling beneath his stillness.

The way his presence floods every inch of space around me like smoke trapped in a glass bottle.

A scar cuts along his cheekbone, fading as it drags down his jaw and into his neck. Fresh since the last time I saw him. The beard too.

But some things never change. The mask. It’s still there.

Black, fitted, hiding just enough to shield who he is… but not the arrogance in his brow, or the cruel curve of his grin.

“You know the rules, Riley.”

“I—” My voice splinters, every bullshit lie I planned to say disintegrates on my tongue.

Screw it.

I give him the truth. “I wasn’t feeling well.”

“You weren’t feeling well… And wanted to see a doctor, Riley?”

I nod.

He motions casually to the man. “So see one.”

What?

My spine snaps straight.

Not just no. Hell no.

I will not see a doctor with Zver’s ruthless gaze drilling into me.

I refuse to give this psychopath the sick pleasure of watching me react when I find out if I’m pregnant.

Pregnant with another man’s baby.

The doctor shifts his winter-sky gaze to me—to my diamond-studded collar, to my helpless, I’m-so-fucking-sorry expression.

Zver nods to Dominic.

On cue, Dominic presses the barrel of his gun discreetly into the doctor’s ribs. “Tell your nurse to leave,” Zver orders.

He opens the door. The doctor nods and calls out. “Feel free to take off, Kinsley.”

A tense pause.

No one speaks. From down the hall, we hear a quick shuffle. Then, “See you Monday, Doc.”

The doctor doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink. Not even the slightest sign of fear.

Instead, he rises to his feet. Not quite as tall as Zver, but he meets Dominic’s lethal stare head-on, unyielding and defiant.

“If this woman needs medical attention, I’ll examine her. No need to hold a gun to my head.”

“You’ll forgive me if I disagree.” Zver laughs, the sound hollow and dangerous. “She is my most valuable possession.”

His possession?

And… valuable?

The doctor raises his hands in surrender. “No problem. But if you want an accurate assessment, we’ll need space. Privacy. I can’t do my job with you hovering like the grim reaper.”

Whatever patience Zver has shatters. In two strides, he devours the distance between him and the doctor and grabs him by the throat. “Look at her.”

The doctor obeys, eyes darting helplessly toward me.

“This woman is priceless. Protected. And mine.” Each word carves the air, straight to the center of my chest. “Touch her the wrong way, and you’ll pay with your fucking hands.”

I’ve seen this look before. Even when I wasn’t his , Zver had no qualms about killing two men who definitely touched me the wrong way .

But this guy isn’t some street thug.

He’s a doctor. White coat, sterile rooms, floors polished to a clinical shine.

Fuck. This is spiraling out of control.

Zver’s silence stretches, simmering behind that dark, unreadable mask.

I already have Dante’s blood smeared across my conscience. I can’t bear another man’s death.

I slide a cautious palm against Zver’s chest. “Please.”

His eyes snap to mine, two pools of merciless black ink. And for one raw, startling second, something cracks. A whisper of tenderness bleeds through, faint and fleeting as moonlight spilling across a forest floor.

“Fine,” he finally rasps. “You have five minutes. But that door stays cracked.”

The instant my hand drops away, without another word, Zver leaves, Dominic behind him.

True to his word, the door is left cracked just enough I’m pretty sure they’re hanging on every word.

The doctor exhales a tight breath, and reaches for his stethoscope. “And I thought I’d head out early.” His half-hearted grin is quickly erased by a warm smile. “Please. Have a seat miss…”

“Riley.” I might as well say it. Zver said it first.

He nods absently, moving the stethoscope in position. “Right. Riley.” He listens, eyes fixed away from my face. "Symptoms?" His voice is measured with quiet reassurance.

“Um,” I say cautiously, glancing toward the sliver of open door. There’s no point hiding anything. I need answers. Quietly, I say, “Dizzy spells.”

He nods, moving the stethoscope to my back. “Deep breath in. Long breath out.”

I comply, trying to steady the tremor in my breaths.

His eyes flick briefly to mine, searching. "Anything else? Headaches? Nausea?"

I nod. “Sometimes."

He moves closer, voice dropping lower until the heat of his breath is in my ear. "Any chance you could be pregnant?"

My heart trips, panic spiking.

I flick another glance toward the cracked door.

"Definitely not," I chuckle loud and sharp, but my gaze locks onto the doctor’s clear, ice-blue eyes, and I slowly, deliberately nod yes .

“I see.” He rummages swiftly through his desk drawer. “The easiest way to rule things out—or in.”

The doctor’s gaze flicks anxiously between me and the slightly cracked door, his throat bobbing visibly for the first time. “I’ll need to draw blood,” he whispers cautiously.

“Okay,” I breathe, eyes darting nervously toward that narrow gap.

Can he do it without Zver knowing?

He glances down at my sweatshirt, inspecting the too tight sleeves. Of course, today, of all days, I wore a hoodie and not a zip-up. But I never know when I’ll be rained on at the cemetery. “You’ll, um, need to take that off.”

I’m no stranger to undressing in front of doctors. Defiantly, I’ve shown countless white coats Jimmy’s handiwork. The sickening black-and-blues painted brutally along my arms and legs.

Not that it ever made a damn bit of difference.

My step-monster had a knack for finding doctors who’d turn a blind eye and sign off on my physicals for school.

When this doctor stands there, waiting, a chill creeps down my spine.

As always, I refuse to let him see how uncomfortable it makes me.

Swiftly, I pull the sweatshirt over my head, the soft cotton sliding off.

The chill bites my exposed skin, raising instant goosebumps along my arms. I’ve jogged in less clothes, worn tighter outfits than this stupid sports bra with these jeans.

Yet something about the way his gaze drags over my body sends an uneasy ripple over me. Like spider legs over bare skin.

He’s just a fucking doctor, Riley. Not a letch.

Pull yourself together.

I suck in a sharp breath and thrust out my arm. “Go ahead.”

His movements are precise and clinical. Exactly what a sane person would expect. The tourniquet snaps tight around my arm, biting into my skin hard.

“Ow!” My voice escapes in a harsh gasp, louder than expected.

His eyes flare with something unreadable, then flick from me to the cracked door.

When no one storms in, his shoulders loosen. A faint, unsettled smirk ghosts his mouth. “Sorry,” he says, chuckling weakly. “My nurse usually does this. Guess I’m rusty.”

The cold needle slides effortlessly into my vein, barely more than the faintest prick. Less painful than the stupid tourniquet, at least.

He leans so close his breath ghosts my neck and my brain fires off every alarm I’ve got.

My eyes slam shut.

I can’t react. Not with a needle buried in my arm. I force myself to breathe slow and try to fold into the pain, but it cleaves through again when he slices further in.

A little yelp dies in my throat.

“Is he the father?” he asks.

My eyes fly open. “What?”

“Is he?”

I nod.

Why the hell did I just do that?

First off, Zver’s not the father. And second, and more importantly, it’s none of his fucking business.

He nods as if he understands. “We’ll say you have a sinus infection. I’ll give you some antibiotics. Don’t take them. They’re just for show. How should I notify you of the results?”

I swallow hard, scrambling to think clearly. “The cemetery. Behind the biggest mausoleum. One week from today. At this time.” My voice is almost hopeful. Desperate.

His free hand brushes against my shoulder, fingers lingering just a fraction too long, igniting a wave of sickening dread beneath my skin.

“I’ll keep your secret safe,” he murmurs softly, a disturbing edge woven into his assurance. “You can trust me.”

I barely register his words. Something’s wrong. His hand lays firmer on my shoulder, down my arm. It’s like sandpaper rasping slowly, relentlessly, against my bones.

Panic claws viciously up my throat, my pulse skyrocketing out of nowhere. I’m seconds from throwing up. Or screaming. Or both.

Breathe.

This isn’t Jimmy.

Jimmy isn’t here.

He can’t hurt me.

It’s all in my head.

All. In. My. Head.

The chant echoes through me, frantic whispers crashing against a tsunami of emotions.

Then suddenly, the tourniquet loosens, the needle sliding free like a blade pulled from a wound.

Air. I need air. And I need to put my fucking sweatshirt back on.

Grabbing my hoodie, I shove to my feet, desperate for distance.

But the second I’m upright, dizziness slams into my skull like a free-swinging sledgehammer.

My vision splinters violently, forcing my eyes shut.

Helplessly, I pitch forward, crashing straight into the doctor’s chest.

Do I feel his hand gripping my ass as he steadies me?

Yeah, I fucking do.

Can I do a goddamn thing about it while the world’s spinning like the iceberg scene in Titanic?

Not a chance.

The ringing in my ears climbs as the door slamming open hits me like a bullet shattering glass.

And that low, familiar growl is both dangerous threat and twisted salvation.

Two deadly edges of the same Russian sword.

“Well, well, well. Not as attached to your hands as I thought, doc.”