Page 60 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)

RILEY

I blink.

Once.

Twice.

No matter how many times I do it, the same face stares back at me.

Speechless.

I’m rendered speechless. And that’s saying a lot.

Every word in my throat is jammed, jumbled, useless.

My brain misfires all over the fucking place.

I scrape together the remnants, trying to stitch some sense out of this emotional dumpster fire.

This cannot be evil-mastermind Zver and the man buried in a massive D’Angelo mausoleum.

Wait. Is this Dillon?

Don’t be an idiot, Riley. Dillon walked you in here.

Finally, and without my permission, my mouth begins to work.

“Dante?”

He shrugs, and that same smile hits—full lips, curling just so, dimple cutting deep.

Zver’s dimple.

He rubs a hand along the back of his neck. “Yes, Pom. It’s me.”

Realization slams through me. No accent. No pitch-black eyes that cut straight through to my soul.

And… wait a damn minute.

I grab his arm, yanking it closer.

He howls in pain because, right, shot in the shoulder. But I barely register it. Because all I see is a blank canvas of skin where a tattoo should be.

No ink.

No serpent for Dante.

No skull and roses for Zver.

What the hell? Or maybe the better question is who the hell?

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” My voice spikes, high and sharp. “You mean to tell me the man who dragged me through hell, got me pregnant, died, kept me on a leash, kissed me like he wanted to start World War Three with my mouth—was you? You’re Zver? And Dante-fucking-D’Angelo?”

He lifts a finger. “For the record, it takes two people to get someone pregnant.”

He did not just say that.

His hands cradle my face. “You can’t tell me that there wasn’t some part of you that didn’t know.”

Is he right?

How many times did the thought flicker at the edges? All those big, blaring reminders of him. The way he looks at me. How he handles a knife. The way he called me Pom .

God. Deep down, did I know?

His thumb wipes a tear, then dusts my lower lip. “My touch. My kiss.”

I blink hard. “Your mask. Your accent. Your fucking beard!” I shoot to my feet.

He takes my hand, and it’s clear he’s not letting go. “We need to talk about this.”

“Why? So you can gaslight me?” I rip my hand away and drop my gaze to the floor. I don’t even want to look at him. “I don’t even know who you are.”

“Yes, you do. I’m the ghost you’ve been romanticizing for months.”

My heart drops.

“Oh, my God.” A laugh tears out of me, hysterical and ugly. I make my way to the door. “Stay away from me. Stay away from my baby.”

“ Our baby.”

“The hell it is.”

“You can’t keep me from our child.” It doesn’t come out like a threat—it comes out like a plea.

But I’m too wound up to care. I’m a viper, striking at anything in reach. “Watch me.”

He reaches for me and snags my arm.

I react.

My hand lands square on his shoulder.

He crashes back against the bed, a raw sound tearing out of him. His chest heaves. “You punched me.” He stares at me, stunned. “In my bullet wound. On purpose.” The words grind through his teeth, thick with pain.

“You—” I jab an accusatory finger at him. “You tried to grab me. Which, considering everything I’ve been through, is more than a little triggering. And punched is a very strong word. I did not punch you. I gingerly established boundaries.”

“With a quarterback’s force.”

I spin toward the door. “I’m leaving.”

“Pom—” His voice is all deep, gravelly low. It’s too much.

“No.” I whip around, tears hot and spilling. “Don’t you call me that. Don’t you ever call me that again.” My throat knots, but the words rip out anyway. “You lied to me.”

“I never lied.”

I lose it. “That’s right—you never told me you died, but you let them erect a fucking mausoleum the size of a football field in your name. Then, to add insult to injury, you let me fall in love with a mask. With someone who didn’t even exist.”

“I’m right here.” He throws his arms wide—IV dripping, bandages tight, buck-fucking-naked.

I swear to God, I’m so mad, I can't even see straight.

His eyes burn, but his voice stays calm. Infuriatingly calm. “I was protecting you.”

“Protecting me?” My laugh cracks, as tears blur my vision. “Newsflash, asshole—when you ‘protect’ someone, you don’t knock them up and then fake your own death.”

His mouth opens, then closes.

He shifts, winces, staggering back as his hand clamps his shoulder.

“Oh, good—pain. At least for once in your life, you’re capable of being real.”

I know it’s a low blow. But goddamn it, I’m hurt.

Softly, he says, “I knew my days were numbered. I couldn’t let you fall in love with me if I was just gonna die.”

My voice slips out small. “And yet, you did.”

“Riley.” His glacial eyes lock on mine. “I love you. Please don’t go. Can we just… talk?”

It feels like the entire Earth is about to give way.

I’m so mixed up. So confused.

An hour ago, I wanted to climb into his arms and never let go.

Three months ago, I wanted to hate him, and ended up falling for him.

And now?

When you’re shattered into a million pieces by betrayal, can you ever crawl out the other side still holding onto love?

It hurts so much. Physically hurts.

All I want to do is shut it all off. But I don’t know how.

All I know is I have to get away from him.

I race for the door. Behind me, chaos erupts—a cluster of voices, the guards, the stupid IV.

Apparently, they’re trying to stop him, but he’s still dragging the IV stand and Igor-gimping after me.

Shit. He’s going to hurt himself.

Oh my God, Riley, why do you care?

Ugh . Because I do.

“Stop following me!” I shout.

“I will never stop.” His voice echoes down the hall, practically rattling the windows.

And there he is—mask or no mask, possessive alpha-hole has arrived in full swing.

He stands taller now, chest puffed, eyes blazing.

“I’ll never stop following you, stalking you, hunting you down. You are mine, Riley.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Really? Because you sat at my grave every single day, pledging your undying devotion. Or don’t you remember that?”

Dillon materializes at my side, flashing his brother every universal symbol for shut the fuck up.

Tears blur my vision.

My throat burns. “You don’t get it, Dante—or Zver—or whatever the fuck your name is. I’d rather be chained to a ghost who told me the truth than a liar cowering at my feet.”

Helpless, he casts out one last lifeline. “I love you.”

I throw it back in his face. “But you didn’t trust me enough to love you.”

I sprint down the hall.

Dillon catches me before I can collapse against the wall. I can’t tell if it’s my blood pressure tanking or just the weight of our argument crushing me.

His arms steady me, his gaze flicking from my tear-streaked face to Dante’s staggering form—dragging the IV stand like some undead zombie who just refuses to quit.

“Please, don’t go,” Dillon says, voice low, pleading. “Pick any bedroom you want—clear on the other side of the house, no questions asked. You’re carrying our niece or nephew. Let us take care of you. Just… tell me what you need.”

Exhausted. Defeated. I give him one request.

“Keep that asshole away from me.”