Page 153 of SINS & Riley
Maybe the doctor’s someone I can reason with. Someone I can beg for help.
Or at the very least, I can scout the exits.
I’ve run from Zver so many times, in so many ways, my chest tightens with something dangerous—hope.
Don’t worry, little one. Mama’s got this.
An eternity later, we finally pull up.
Relief flares, small but sharp. I know this place.
And I know the doctor.
Granted, last time I saw him he was a total whack job—but maybe, before his little tête-à-tête with Enzo scrambled his brain, he really was trying to help me.
I’m not sure I can trust him. But what choice do I have?
I’m forced out of the van, through the lobby, and down the hall before I’m shoved into a room.
The doctor steps in, his gaze dragging from my head to my feet before locking on the blood.
He licks his lips.
Eww.
“Wait outside,” he orders Elena.
“Make sure you don’t kill her,” she warns.
“I’ll do my best.”
She slips out.
His gaze snaps back to me, catching on the zip ties. For a split second I think he might actually help—until he barks, “Sit. Down.”
I do.
He lifts his bandaged hand, crimson seeping through the gauze. “Your boyfriend did this.”
“If he did, why the hell is it still bleeding?”
He snarls. “He made me stitch my own hand.”
Oh, fuck.
“Give me a reason—any reason—to hurt you, and I will. If your baby wasn’t so precious, you’d already be dead.”
I stay quiet.
No sudden movements. His eyes are blown wide, bloodshot, twitchy. And that white dust smeared around his nostrils? Not flour from a midnight croissant run.
He reaches for a tank, twisting the knob with slow, deliberate precision. I’m no doctor, but I’m pretty damn sure that’s anesthesia.
If he knocks me out, it’s game over. They’ll know I faked the bleeding.
And I’m pretty damn sure I’ll wake up in a Hannibal Lecter pit of despair, minus the complimentary lotion.
I let out a moan. “Ow. It hurts.”
