Page 6 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)

ZVER

D ominic slides his blazer around Riley, shielding her from the doctor’s greedy eyes.

She’s pale, trembling, and quivering like a newborn colt.

But she won’t lean on him.

That’s my girl. Breathtaking in her defiance.

Dominic gives her exactly one second of indulging in her pride before sweeping her into his arms.

“Take her home,” I say darkly. Not that he needs the reminder—I’m no helicopter parent. But watching Dominic cradle my Zapretnaya away when it should be me doing the honors, especially in front of this prick, has me edgy as fuck.

Her eyes catch mine, holding for just a breath, but it’s enough. Enough to brand her ownership deeper into my bones. To remind me that two months might’ve passed, but Riley Mullvain is mine.

Maybe now more than she ever fucking was.

Then Dominic moves, sweeping her out of the room, and they’re gone.

I roll my shoulders and crack my neck. “Alone at last…” I pause to read the diploma on the wall, “Dr. Sterling.”

He shoves his hands into his pockets, shifting nervously as his gaze darts toward the ceiling behind me.

“Relax, Sterling. Your cameras won’t catch a thing.” Not that his security system is much of a challenge. They linked to a central hub so pathetic a toddler could crack it.

Sterling might have expensive taste in clothes, shoes, and watches, but he’s cheap as fuck where it counts.

“What are you going to do to me?” he demands, voice tight but trying hard for courage he doesn’t actually feel.

“ I’m not going to do anything to you. I won’t need to. I’m pretty sure you’re going to stab yourself in the hand.”

He lets out a nervous chuckle. “Look, pal, I’m not sure why I’d do something like that… Zver, was it?” His tone shifts, adopting the casual, conversational approach favored by shrinks and hostage negotiators.

Too bad it’s completely undermined by the tremor rattling his tone.

My lips curl slowly, a predator savoring the scent of fear. “And yet, you will.”

“She needs rest,” Sterling insists, shifting tactics abruptly. Ah, the classic pivot—when all else fails, fall back on the facts. “She, um …”

His voice catches, choking on his own bullshit as his trembling hands fumble toward the drawers. He clears his throat roughly, professional sounding to a desperate fault. “She has a sinus infection. I have antibiotics for her.”

“Hopefully you’re a better doctor than you are a liar.”

Slowly, deliberately, Sterling reaches for something in the center drawer. My Glock sits heavy in the holster beneath my coat, but firing it isn’t on today’s agenda.

I know exactly what he’s reaching for. Hell, I want him to reach for it.

That drawer contains precisely three items: a vial of coke, a flask of whiskey, and a meticulously polished hunting knife I discovered earlier.

While my stubborn little Zapretnaya was busy squeezing herself through the smallest fucking window imaginable, I was here.

I’d already mapped out every possible destination she might run to.

And as amusing as it might’ve been to see Riley’s big green eyes widening at the triple-X bookstore two doors down, I knew exactly where she’d run.

Here.

Moments before I’d disabled Sterling’s pathetic security cameras, I’d made myself comfortable in his overpriced chair, feet propped up as I watched the esteemed Dr. Sterling conclude a session with one of his so-called "patients."

He’d lined her pussy with enough blow to numb a thoroughbred, then proceeded to snort himself senseless.

He’d concluded his session by cramming a wad of cash into her hands, then shoved her out the back door half-naked.

Dr. Asshole’s a real class act.

But just when I think dipshits are predictable, he surprises me. He backs cautiously away from the drawer, hesitating like a man suddenly reconsidering his swan dive off a cliff.

Instead, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, orange plastic vial of pills.

A bit of a buzzkill, but whatever.

My eyes flick between his trembling fingers and his carefully crafted expression.

“Antibiotics,” he says, rattling the bottle for effect before casually tossing it onto the desk between us. “She needs these.”

Yeah, the odds I’ll let my sweet little Pom swallow anything from this scumbag are about the same as Satan enjoying a nice, refreshing icicle butt plug.

Patience gone, I stare him down coldly. “Riley’s no more sick than you’re free of STDs.”

His eyes flare, composure finally fracturing. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Ignoring his weak protest, I step closer, knocking the pills off the desk and pointing deliberately at the small vial of Riley’s blood. “I’ll be back for these results in two days.”

“I need at least three,” he insists quickly.

“Technically, you only need fifteen minutes,” I say flatly. “The extra time is for your recovery.”

His brows pinch in confusion. “Huh?”

“Never mind. Let’s focus on something you’ll understand. If Riley returns, keep your fucking hands off her.”

“She fainted. I caught her. Patient safety,” he insists weakly. Then, under his breath, his true colors bleed out. “Next time, I’ll let her fat ass hit the floor.”

Finally. The good doctor drops his fucking mask. Mine, however, stays locked firmly in place.

“Speaking of safety,” I add, “you wouldn’t happen to have a suture kit handy, would you?”

He frowns, confusion swimming through his eyes. “A what?”

“A suture kit,” I repeat slowly, patiently—like explaining math to a six-year-old. “You know, the thing used to stitch up deep, ugly wounds.”

Bewildered, he moves compliantly to a nearby cabinet, digs around, and returns a moment later, carefully placing a neatly packaged kit onto the center of his desk. “Here.”

“Oh, it’s not for me,” I assure him. “It’s for you.”

With that, I turn. My back to him, I’m already two steps toward the door when the air shifts. An icy whisper of steel cuts close to my ear. I know it.

Adrenaline explodes through my veins, igniting every nerve.

My body reacts on pure, lethal instinct, spinning smoothly to meet the incoming blade head-on.

I spin, yank his other hand with both of mine and shove it right into the knife’s path.

His eyes widen instantly—shock, fear, and the brutal realization of exactly how truly fucked he is, all merging perfectly into a single delicious moment.

His howl rips through the room, sharp and guttural, a symphony of pure torment.

I soak up his anguish like a fucking microfiber sponge.

The knife punches clean through his palm, blood spilling in thick rivulets down his arm, staining the cuff of his neatly pressed shirt. I drive the blade—and his trembling hand—straight into the polished wood desk, pinning him to it.

It’s hard to talk over his erratic howling, so I give him room to breathe before I lean in.

Then, I invade his space, making him as uncomfortable as he made Riley when he smothered himself along her side. “Now listen very carefully, doc. No cops. No hospitals. You’ll stitch yourself up right here like the good little predator you are.”

He blinks hard, tears spilling as he chokes between clenched teeth. “But, I’m right-handed.”

I lift the gun, pressing the cold, unforgiving barrel deep into the tender flesh beneath his eye socket, finger tensed on the trigger. “I don’t give a fuck. Stitch yourself up or bleed out—the choice is yours.”

Sterling nods frantically, every ounce of fight drained from his shaking body.

I step back, watching with cold satisfaction as his blood stains the polished wood, permanently ruining his precious mahogany. Then, I head out the door.

I warned him he’d stab himself through the hand.

What can I say?

When it comes to degenerates and bottom-feeders, I guess I’m fucking psychic.