Page 187 of SINS & Riley

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I was about to unleash another angry rant—because apparently rage is my love language—when I see it.

Not my handwriting.

His.

Dante’s.

For a long minute, I just sit there staring at the page like if I glare hard enough, it’ll combust on command.

I’m not sure exactly how I feel about this.

On one hand, I’m furious.

He had no right.

This is mine. My journal. My sacred place to bleed out words when I don’t know what else to do with the pain.

What do I have to do? Slap a lock on it and a neon sign that screams OFF FUCKING LIMITS?

On the other…

Who am I kidding?

My journal has never been off-limits.

Not to every sick, twisted fantasy I could conjure.

Not to his sinister obsession with me.

And not to the wreckage we’ve made of each other.

God help me, I want him to pour his soul out so I can devour it—a spoon in each hand, double-fisted like it’s ice cream.

I’ve always loved reading.

But reading him?

His private, most intimate thoughts? That’s a whole new delicacy.

Creeping through his head doesn’t erase the rage.

I’m still furious.

I still want nothing to do with him.

In fact, the more his wing of the house is moated off from mine, the better.

And yet, God, I want in.

I want to crawl inside his skull, tear down every wall, rip out every rotten secret until all that’s left is what’s raw. What’s bleeding. What’s real.

I want to know exactly what he’s thinking. What he’s feeling.

And in a very fucked-up way… I want it in black and white.

Written proof that under the lies, the masks, the half-truths—beneath all the bullshit he’s graffitied over?—

That Dante loves me.

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