Page 16 of SINS & Riley
“She fainted. I caught her. Patient safety,” he insists weakly. Then, under his breath, his true colors bleed out. “Next time, I’ll let her fat ass hit the floor.”
Finally. The good doctor drops his fucking mask. Mine, however, stays locked firmly in place.
“Speaking of safety,” I add, “you wouldn’t happen to have a suture kit handy, would you?”
He frowns, confusion swimming through his eyes. “A what?”
“A suture kit,” I repeat slowly, patiently—like explaining math to a six-year-old. “You know, the thing used to stitch up deep, ugly wounds.”
Bewildered, he moves compliantly to a nearby cabinet, digs around, and returns a moment later, carefully placing a neatly packaged kit onto the center of his desk. “Here.”
“Oh, it’s not for me,” I assure him. “It’s for you.”
With that, I turn. My back to him, I’m already two steps toward the door when the air shifts. An icy whisper of steel cuts close to my ear. I know it.
Adrenaline explodes through my veins, igniting every nerve.
My body reacts on pure, lethal instinct, spinning smoothly to meet the incoming blade head-on.
I spin, yank his other hand with both of mine and shove it right into the knife’s path.
His eyes widen instantly—shock, fear, and the brutal realization of exactly how truly fucked he is, all merging perfectly into a single delicious moment.
His howl rips through the room, sharp and guttural, a symphony of pure torment.
I soak up his anguish like a fucking microfiber sponge.
The knife punches clean through his palm, blood spilling in thick rivulets down his arm, staining the cuff of his neatly pressed shirt. I drive the blade—and his trembling hand—straight into the polished wood desk, pinning him to it.
It’s hard to talk over his erratic howling, so I give him room to breathe before I lean in.
Then, I invade his space, making him as uncomfortable as he made Riley when he smothered himself along her side. “Now listen very carefully, doc. No cops. No hospitals. You’ll stitch yourself up right here like the good little predator you are.”
He blinks hard, tears spilling as he chokes between clenched teeth. “But, I’m right-handed.”
I lift the gun, pressing the cold, unforgiving barrel deep into the tender flesh beneath his eye socket, finger tensed on the trigger. “I don’t give a fuck. Stitch yourself up or bleed out—the choice is yours.”
Sterling nods frantically, every ounce of fight drained from his shaking body.
I step back, watching with cold satisfaction as his blood stains the polished wood, permanently ruining his precious mahogany. Then, I head out the door.
I warned him he’d stab himself through the hand.
What can I say?
When it comes to degenerates and bottom-feeders, I guess I’m fucking psychic.
6
RILEY
Journal Entry | Riley
Sometimes when I’m trapped and all alone, I picture myself in a grand villa in Tuscany.
Once, I read about a Baroness simmering cinghiale ragù over wide ribbons of pappardelle—it sounded divine… right up until I learned cinghiale meant wild boar. Hard pass.
But cantucci with Vin Santo? Almond biscuits dunked into sweet amber wine? I could definitely live on that.
