Page 59 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)
RILEY
“H e’s up here.” Dillon walks me down endless halls, and every step makes my stomach twist tighter.
No one’s talking. No one’s telling me anything at all. And it’s killing me.
Is he all right?
And, if he is, why would everyone be so damn secretive?
Maybe because they know I’ve slipped from my ordinary pregnancy to high-risk with my blood pressure.
God. What if he’s hurt.
What if he’s… missing things.
Stop that.
It doesn’t matter.
Panic claws at me, but I shove it down.
It’s okay. Everything will be fine. Because I don’t care if he’s nothing but a grumpy burrito wrapped in hospital gauze, as long as we’re together, we’ll be just fine.
We’re about to be a family.
I breathe through a few more mini-panic attacks as we climb the stairs and wind through this big-ass palace.
I swear, there are hiking trails with fewer miles.
Windows stretch the length of the hall, flooding everything with light. Outside, the D’Angelo estate rolls on forever—manicured lawns, lush trees, and more guards than the Vatican.
It’s beautiful. But it isn’t home.
Not mine. His .
Zver’s.
I already spoke with Dominic. Plans are underway to renovate everything. I want it perfect by the time we return. Dominic does too. Especially since Babushka and the kids are due back this weekend.
God, I’m aching to see them.
But not as much as I ache to see my man.
Dillon stops at the last door. Two men stand flanking it, Glocks at the ready. The sight kind of pisses me off.
“Why the hell do you have guards on him?”
“He’s not exactly the best patient.”
“Ah.” I nod. I can totally see that about him.
“I’ll be across the hall in the library,” Dillon says, as he opens the door for me.
I nod, throat tight.
And there he is.
Zver .
My chest cracks wide open as I take him in.
His muscles are tight, body rigid, the kind of coiled tension that screams pain even in sleep. The bedding hides nothing—he’s half-naked beneath it. Chest bare. One shoulder strapped in layers of fresh bandages. An IV snakes from his arm.
And the beard that felt like heaven scraping between my thighs, it’s gone. Shaved clean off.
But the mask is still there. And behind it, so is he. I know it.
Tears burn, but I force them back. I won’t let him see fear.
Only love.
Love—and the unspoken promise that I’ll care for him.
Tend to him.
His Grey’s Anatomy naughty nurse. His ride-or-die. Always. Till death do us part .
Never mind that I faint at needles, gag at blood, and have zero tolerance for anything involving bodily fluids. Motherhood’s coming at me like an earth-ending comet.
So toughen up, buttercup.
I breathe deep and edge closer, tiptoeing like I’m moving across cracked ice.
Finally, I sink into the chair beside his bed, and drink him in.
I want to ask why he’s still wearing his mask.
Because—oh God—what if he’s all Phantom of the Opera underneath. Horribly scarred.
Not that it would matter. It’s been a recurring fantasy ever since I read the book. No qualms here.
And then… his eyes.
Blue. Startling. Not the pitch black I’ve lost myself in more times than I can count.
Then I remember the box of black contact lenses.
Right.
I fiddle with the hem of my dress and break the long, awkward silence. “Your eyes are beautiful. You’re not wearing your contacts.”
He shakes his head. Is it weird he's not speaking?
I take a breath and ask another question. “Why do you still have the mask on?”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even try. Instead, he grabs a pen, scratches across a pad of paper, and holds it up.
Oh, shit.
Did something happen to his voice?
What if he can never speak again?
Fine. Then I’ll stay. I’ll learn whatever I have to—sign language, hand signals, interpretive dance, Morse code…
Wait, isn’t sign language for deaf people? Whatever. We’ll figure it out.
He scribbles again, the pen racing across the page, and then tilts it toward me.
There's something I have to tell you.
Dread unfurls in my belly.
“It’s all right,” I whisper. “Whatever it is, I promise everything’s going to be fine. We’ll get through it together.”
He nods, slowly. But his brows knot tight. He’s nervous.
He bends over the pad again, scratching fast.
My knee bounces. Anxiety gnaws at me as I nibble my lip.
This man’s penmanship is pure serial killer. And reading it upside down? Forget it.
Finally, he flips it toward me.
I’m not who you think I am.
The air punches out of my lungs.
True, I don’t exactly know who he is. I don’t even know his last name. And there’s zero shot of me picking him out of a lineup.
But in my heart? I know him.
And isn’t that what matters?
I take his hand, gripping tight. “You’re the man who pulled me out of that stupid auction. You saved me. And Mila. And so many more. And even when I kept trying to run, you protected me.”
He shrugs, like— fair enough .
“You’re also the father of my child. And okay, maybe I don’t know why you spent two months keeping me close without saying a word, but that’s something I’ll discover as I discover you.”
He gives a small shake of his head, like why would you do that?
My voice cracks, but I force it through. “Because… I love you, Zver.”
With that, his face falls.
Oh, God.
What if I just poured my heart out… and he doesn’t love me back?
I swallow down the sob clawing at my throat. “Hey. It’s okay if you don’t?—”
He slips his hand from mine.
Then, gentle fingers catch my chin, tipping it up until my eyes lock with his.
His other hand goes for the mask.
My heart stops. All breathing shuts completely down.
Slowly, he peels it off.
Butterflies riot in my chest—too many, too fast—like if he moves any quicker, I’ll explode into a butterfly pinata.
And then… the mask falls away.
And…
What the actual fuck?