Page 73 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)

RILEY

N esting, they call it.

More like manic scrubbing. I’ve cleaned the same toilet three times—like I’m auditioning for a crime scene cleanup crew.

Or, a wet team.

Every towel, bleached within an inch of its life. Every drawer, gutted, reorganized—folded, refolded, folded again.

I’ve Marie Kondo’ed the shit out of this place.

Is there even dust in a drawer? Probably not. But my brain doesn’t care.

Baby inbound.

Must. Clean.

I scan the room, eyes locking on the one place I haven’t touched. Under the bed.

Am I crazy? Absolutely. Can crazy people help themselves? Not a chance.

I drop to my knees, Swiffer in hand, praying there aren’t any creepy-crawly spiders lurking.

Instead of dust bunnies, a blue folder slides out.

I flip it open, half-expecting receipts, contracts… hell, maybe even a color-coded hit list.

Instead, my heart cracks open.

It’s a paternity test.

I stare at it too long because part of me can’t believe he did this. And yet—after months of lies, after pretending to be someone else—maybe I can.

Dante doesn’t trust me?

Wow. Pot, meet kettle. Could he scream hypocrisy any louder?

And it’s still absolutely fucking insane, because he knows how I lost my virginity.

To him.

He was there.

Tears sting, blurring everything. He lied. Again. Right to my face. Or rather, he ducked and avoided.

Which is totally the same fucking thing.

That’s it.

I drag out a suitcase, cramming in whatever I can grab. Clothes. Shoes. Enough emotional baggage I have to sit on it just to force the zipper shut.

I don’t even care where I end up. Kennedy’s couch. A motel. Hell, the back seat of my car.

Though, it’s not exactly a burden. Dante upgraded me to a bigger Mercedes SUV—soft leather seats, Wi-Fi, dual monitors. Even a fridge that holds twelve bottles of breast milk.

Twelve.

Like what? My boobs are on tap.

But that’s not the point.

The point is I’m done.

Right. Fucking. Now.

The suitcase fights me—too big and heavy in all the wrong ways.

Still, I manage to drag it through two halls of the D’Angelo estate, wheels clattering over marble like a rapid-fire shots. Versailles on steroids.

By the time I hear voices, my lungs are on fire. How the hell am I supposed to keep up with a kid?

Enzo and Smoke are in the library, talking loud enough I know it’s the scotch, but low enough I can’t make them out.

Not that it matters.

You know what two big, burly men could do? Move this damn suitcase for the pregnant lady.

Hell, they could probably lift it with a finger. Because let’s be real—short of magically levitating it, there’s no way I’m getting it into the trunk.

I take a breath, square my shoulders, and wheel it straight through the door.

But then I hear Dante. Fuck a rubber duck. “Just don’t tell Pom,” he says.

I don’t know what he means. But I know he’s hiding something. Again.

My first instincts hit hard. Eavesdrop. Find a nice, thick sliver of wood to sink all my pain into. And run .

But I can’t. I’m not that scared little girl anymore. I’m done hiding in the dark, crouched in a closet, waiting to see what the monsters will do.

It’s time to step into the light. And for the first time in my life, face my fears head-on.

I’ve been through hell and back. I’m raw, hormonal as shit, and about to be a mom. A warning to all monsters: fear me.

With that, I yank on my big-girl panties. Dante D’Angelo better brace for impact, because God help him, we’re doing the one thing I’ve always been too scared to do.

We are about to have a long, hard talk. And if my inner Scots girl has a say, our conversation will be loud enough to blow off the freaking roof.

I barge in. They’re bent over the pool table, mid-laugh, when I wheel the suitcase through the door.

Dante’s blue eyes blow wide. “Is it time?”

“Yeah. Time for me to shove this suitcase right up your ass.”

He looks to the heavens for help while Enzo and Smoke grin like they’ve won the lotto. What luck—front row seats.

I don’t let up. “Dante D’Angelo, what can’t they”—I air quote—“tell Pom?”

They all clam up.

By now, I’m shouting. “Did you or did you not order a paternity test?”

Both his hands fly up in surrender. “I can explain.”

I toss the folder at his feet. “You’ve got one minute.”

Dante straightens. “Pom?—”

“Don’t Pom me. You… you…” I explode. “You need a test?”

Enzo lets out a low whistle. “And you thought she’d be overjoyed.”

Dante’s glare snaps to him, sharp enough to slit throats. “Out.”

Smoke chuckles. “We were just getting to the good part.”

“I said out.”

They shuffle off, still smirking as the door clicks shut behind them.

Dante drags a hand through his hair, a slow smile curving his mouth. “Believe it or not, I did it for you.”

I glare. “I choose not.”

He leans in, voice tight as a wire. “I know you. The thought of our kid in a cage—no matter how pretty—kills you. So I went to the Keenans.”

My chest drops like a weight. “You what?”

“I needed them off your back. This was the only way.”

“You… went to see them?”

“Yes.”

Air rips out of me in a jagged gasp. Pregnant, exhausted, hormones rocketing to Mars, my brain stutters. I jab a finger into his chest, more plea than punch. “How could you? You could’ve been killed. They?—”

His hand closes over mine, warm and tender. For one suspended breath the world narrows to the press of his kiss on my lips.

“They wanted blood. Zver’s blood.”

“But everyone knows, Zver’s dead.”

His palm settles on my belly. “They wanted the blood of his heir. They were convinced you were carrying Zver’s child. That’s why they were after you. So I proved the child— our child—is mine.”

His words settle as his lips tighten to a line. He’s still holding something back.

I smooth a hand over his chest. “You need to talk to me.”

He takes my fingers in his and exhales, the sound small and tight. “To keep you and the baby safe, we entered into an, eh , arrangement.”

“An arrangement?” My stomach knots. I don’t like where this is going, but I force myself to stay put and listen.

He tucks a stray hair behind my ear, the gesture incredibly soft. “Apparently Andre kidnapped Fiona to force Seamus’s cooperation. Seamus would only solidify the alliance if I rescue his daughter.” He shakes his head. “And marry her.”

“Marry her?”

He nods once. “Yes.”

Okay. Screw talking. My blood spikes, and I’m done pretending this is a conversation. I take the wheel. “Tell him no.”

He shuts his eyes, shaking his head. “It’s not that simple.”

I stare at him. “I don’t understand,” I whisper.

“I’m botching this.” He runs his hand through his hair. “Seamus will tell me everything he knows about my father’s disappearance. But only if his daughter has the D’Angelo name.”

My heart hits the floor. I swallow hard, blinking.

To keep us a family, I could live in a cage. But to stand in the way of Dante finding his father? I can’t.

My lips start to tremble. “So, that’s it. You have to marry someone else?”

“What? No.” His gaze locks on mine, fire blazing in his eyes. “You are my world, Riley.”

I shake my head and step back. “I can’t hold you back from this. You have to find out what happened to your father.”

“And I will.”

“You will?” Something in his eyes cracks me open. I know he’ll find this girl. Rescuing people is in the D’Angelo DNA. But he’s chased his father’s ghost so long it’s worn holes through his heart. If he doesn’t find him, it won’t just hurt. A part of him will break.

“Dillon and Mateo are leading the rescue.” He shrugs. “I promise, we’ll figure it out.”

“You need to find your father.”

“I need you, Pom. I’m marrying you or no one. Period.”

He cups my face with both hands; his eyes smolder with something fierce and terrible and honest.

“I love you, Pom. Me. Your beast. I’ll fight every one of your battles. I’ll burn the world down for you. Always. And I will never let you go.”

“I love you, too.” My voice breaks. Tears blur the edges of the room. Business like, I hold up my pinky. “Swear it’ll be all right.”

I lift my pinky. His hooks with mine. “I swear.”

His mouth crashes down on mine, rough and urgent, and for the first time, I let myself fall. No safety net. Pure trust.

Total love.

His hands anchor me, his heart a brutal, steady drum against my palm. The rest of the world burns away until there’s nothing left but heat and this truth: us .

My belly is huge, and almost impossible to get around. But the way he holds me, I don’t feel exposed.

I feel beautiful, and wanted.

I feel loved.

His lips trail lower as he strips me bare, clothes falling piece by piece until only my bra is left. For all the insecurities I carry about my body, I’m strangely at peace with my breasts.

They’re fuller now, heavier, sensitive, and he worships them like a man starved. His tongue and teeth, his suck and bite, each drag leaving me closer to unraveling.

A moan tears out of me as his hand slides between my thighs. I want more. God, I want all of him.

I’ve missed this.

I’ve missed him.

“I need you,” I whimper.

In a breath, we’re naked. He sweeps me to pool table.

Because, right, we need a surface that can hold me up.

He leans over me, pressing one of my legs up high, spreading me for him.

Just the heat of his breath against my pussy has me unraveling, nerves sparking.

I beg for it. “Please?—”

“Such a dirty girl,” he groans against my skin. “So wet for me.”

I shudder. God, I love it when he calls me that.

But I love it more when he works me. One finger. Then two. Three. I can’t take it.

“Holy shit,” I pant, clutching at the rich velvet edge. I can’t even form the words for what I want—it feels so good.

His voice rumbles along my thigh. “What do you need, baby?”

“You,” I gasp. “I need you.”

“My sweet, dirty girl… My cock comes at a price.” His grip on my thigh, possessive. “Come for me.”

I’m so close.

And I can feel him inside of me, as I move with him, and I am going to explode all over this man’s hand.

And then it hits—pleasure tearing through me like lightning. My body arches, shaking against him, every nerve lit on absolute fire.

“Come for me, baby,” he growls.

And I do.

God, I do.

Stars scatter behind my eyes as waves crash over me. It almost hurts the way it feels so good. Pleasure. Pain. The delicious swirl. The raw need I feel for this man.

Then he’s on me—pressing forward with a force that steals my breath, pushing me open to take every bit of him.

One claiming thrust and I’m gone, stretched, consumed, filled until there’s no part of me he hasn’t taken.

That isn’t his.

We work our way to a rhythm, and I take all of him. “Yes, that’s it baby. Yes!”

He slams home, and it’s like the oxygen has been ripped from the planet. All of him is inside me, consuming me, burning me alive from the inside out.

We pant, tangled and undone, as he trails sweet, searing kisses along my neck and mouth. “You said you love me.”

“Did I?”

He nips my lip. “I need you to be honest with me, Pom,” he says, breath ragged.

“Okay.” My pulse skips. I have no idea where this is going.

His eyes lock on mine, sharp and impossibly blue. “Tell me who fucks better. Me or Zver?”

I laugh into his neck, teeth grazing skin. “Whichever one of you just wrecked my lady parts.”