Page 13 of SINS & Riley
I suck in a sharp breath and thrust out my arm. “Go ahead.”
His movements are precise and clinical. Exactly what a sane person would expect. The tourniquet snaps tight around my arm, biting into my skin hard.
“Ow!” My voice escapes in a harsh gasp, louder than expected.
His eyes flare with something unreadable, then flick from me to the cracked door.
When no one storms in, his shoulders loosen. A faint, unsettled smirk ghosts his mouth. “Sorry,” he says, chuckling weakly. “My nurse usually does this. Guess I’m rusty.”
The cold needle slides effortlessly into my vein, barely more than the faintest prick. Less painful than the stupid tourniquet, at least.
He leans so close his breath ghosts my neck and my brain fires off every alarm I’ve got.
My eyes slam shut.
I can’t react. Not with a needle buried in my arm. I force myself to breathe slow and try to fold into the pain, but it cleaves through again when he slices further in.
A little yelp dies in my throat.
“Is he the father?” he asks.
My eyes fly open. “What?”
“Is he?”
I nod.
Why the hell did I just do that?
First off, Zver’s not the father. And second, and more importantly, it’s none of his fucking business.
He nods as if he understands. “We’ll say you have a sinus infection. I’ll give you some antibiotics. Don’t take them. They’re just for show. How should I notify you of the results?”
I swallow hard, scrambling to think clearly. “The cemetery. Behind the biggest mausoleum. One week from today. At this time.” My voice is almost hopeful. Desperate.
His free hand brushes against my shoulder, fingers lingering just a fraction too long, igniting a wave of sickening dread beneath my skin.
“I’ll keep your secret safe,” he murmurs softly, a disturbing edge woven into his assurance. “You can trust me.”
I barely register his words. Something’s wrong. His hand lays firmer on my shoulder, down my arm. It’s like sandpaper rasping slowly, relentlessly, against my bones.
Panic claws viciously up my throat, my pulse skyrocketing out of nowhere. I’m seconds from throwing up. Or screaming. Or both.
Breathe.
This isn’t Jimmy.
Jimmy isn’t here.
He can’t hurt me.
It’s all in my head.
All. In. My. Head.
The chant echoes through me, frantic whispers crashing against a tsunami of emotions.
Then suddenly, the tourniquet loosens, the needle sliding free like a blade pulled from a wound.
