Page 73 of SINS & Riley
What?
Great. Just what I need. Dr. Peanut Gallery chiming in while a million things slam through my skull in one vicious rush:
A baby—my baby—is being thrown into a mess it never asked for.
A gilded cage with an ocean view where the bedtime story is How Not to Piss Off Your Captor, Vol. 1.
A real bookstore my kid will never know because freedom sure as hell isn’t part of our two-for-one package.
And Zver…
I choke on a sob as Zver’s voice tears through my thoughts, clean and sharp. In an instant, the storm inside me stills.
Pom.
What’s he doing here?
No. Not now. I don’t want him here now.
I’m spiraling. And I need Zver’s voice out of my head.
“Well?” the doctor presses, because apparently assholery bares repeating.
I glare up at him. This fucking man, badgering me about paternity. I want to tell him to mind his own goddamn business.
But shock answers for me.
“Yes,” I utter quietly. And once again, I have no idea why I just said that other than right here, right now, I’m completely devoid of logic and good decision making.
I’m too busy wrapping my head around the whole impending baby mama situation.
The doctor stares at me for a moment. Just lifts his chin, eyes sharp with a kind of manic certainty. “Well, you need to get away from him.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
He slips a hand into his pocket, voice flat and clinical. “I know what that guy is like. That man’s insane. If he finds out you’re carrying a child, he will snap.” His eyes flare, hands cutting through the air. “He’ll kill you. I know he will. You and your baby.”
The words slice like knives, sharp and merciless. What’s his deal? I can’t tell if he’s concerned, or completely unhinged?
Either way, his bedside manner is atrocious. Zero stars.
I’m so irritated I almost laugh in his face. Tell him Zver doesn’t scare me. That he’d never go that far.
But… then I see his bandaged hand. God, what if Zver finds out I’m carrying another man’s child. Is he wrong?
On instinct, my fingers find a jagged pebble, pressing until the sting cuts deep. Pain sharpens the edges, grounds me enough to think.
Zver isn’t exactly a live-and-let-live kind of guy. His toolbox has exactly one tool.
Death.
He’s not the let’s talk this out type. He’s more of a finisher.
And don’t even get me started on sharing?
Especially not when it comes to me.
My stomach knots, acid clawing up my throat.
