Page 70 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)
RILEY
S ix hours later, with the entire D’Angelo clan crowding the lobby, the doctor finally sweeps in. One look at my wild eyes, at Dante’s feral grip around me, and she smiles like she’s seen this exact scene a hundred times a day.
“Braxton Hicks contractions. Rougher with preeclampsia.”
Air floods back into my lungs like I’ve been drowning. “But the baby’s okay?”
“She’s perfect.”
“She…” Dante whispers, deep in thought.
My stomach twists. Dante didn’t know. I never told him.
God, I was so furious at him, I kept it locked up, a secret I’d only unleash on my terms.
And now?
He finds out like this.
In a sterile room, from a stranger in a white coat, when he thought he might've been losing our child.
Shame chews at me.
He’s been here all night, holding me together, and I’ve been treating him like he’s the enemy.
The doctor keeps going, her voice almost cheerful as she maps out my recovery. “You’ll need rest. Basically all day, every day. No stress. No lifting. Low sodium. Plenty of hydration. Regular monitoring.”
Each word piles on.
My voice cracks. “So… basically chained to a bed for the next four months?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Dante’s jaw flexes. “When can she go home?”
The doctor beams at him. “Well, aren’t you the doting husband.” Her words hit him like a slap. “Once we finish the last tests, she can go home in a few hours.”
When it’s just us, silence thickens the air.
He lingers by the bed, shadows carved deep into his eyes. “I can wait outside, if you want.”
I force myself to breathe—slow, steady, trying to release the hurt I’ve been clutching for months.
I’m tired of bleeding out over the past. Maybe it’s time to start fighting for our future.
“No.” My voice comes out soft. “It’s… nice to have you here.” The words slip free before I can catch them. “You’re her father. I want you in her life.”
His gaze sharpens. “Just her life?” Hope cuts through the cracks, bright behind his eyes.
My fingers knot the bedsheet. It would be so easy to throw a wall up right now. But I remember that whether he’s Dante or Zver, he has always been there for me. He will always be here for our little girl.
“My life, too… I guess.”
His mouth twitches. “You guess?”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Hey, I’m just coming to terms with the fact I don’t want an all-out war with you anymore. I want a truce. So don’t push your luck.”
“Maybe I don’t want a truce.” His tone goes flat, stoic, and it guts me. Did I just let my walls down so he could stab me in the heart?
He steps closer, his strong frame towering over me. “I want something more.”
“More?” The heart monitor instantly betrays me, beeping faster, louder.
Ugh . Stupid machine. How am I supposed to fake not being excited when you’re ratting me out.
His smile curves wider, that dangerous dimple carving deep into his cheek. His eyes lock on mine.
“Oh, I want a lot more, Pom.”
And then, because insanity runs in his veins, he crouches, slips off my shoes, and starts massaging my feet.
My breath hitches. “What are you doing?”
“Studying for the bar.”
At first it tickles, has me laughing loud and unguarded.
But then his thumb digs firm into my arch, and the tickle dissolves into something so good, I moan.
The unexpected warmth, the steady pressure of his hands—Goddamn, this man knows every button to push to completely unravel me.
“You didn’t get your pedicure today,” he murmurs, smirk tugging at his mouth. “And I already told you about my life’s mission.” He wiggles his brows like an idiot.
A startled laugh bursts free. “You do realize these puppies haven’t been washed since this morning.”
His eyes gleam. “Don’t make me start licking your toes to prove it doesn’t bother me.”
My jaw drops. “You wouldn’t dare?—”
“I’d probably vomit after,” he says, stone serious. “But I absolutely would.”
His gaze slams into me with such intensity I don’t need words—I know exactly what he’s saying. He would do anything for me.
And I know he would.
There’s so much in his eyes, too much, and I can’t take it.
So I whip a pillow at his chest.
His hands still, and his brow arches dangerously high. “Come on, Pom. That the best you’ve got?”
I nail him again. And again. Until we’re in a full-blown pillow fight—exactly what the doctor ordered.
For the first time in forever, the sound filling the room isn’t fear or grief.
It’s us—laughing, wild and reckless, until the walls shake and old wounds rattle loose.
Out of nowhere, he says, “I’d like to take you on a date.”
Butterflies kick hard in my chest, catching me off guard. I mask it the only way I know how—by smacking him with the pillow again.
“Is that a yes, Pom?”
I fight the smile. And lose. “Yes.”
And somewhere in the cracks, the ice around my heart finally begins to thaw.