Page 21 of SINS & Riley
Alone.
With a stranger.
While I was out cold?
I sip the ginger ale without tasting it, my mind racing nowhere fast.
Stay calm, Riley.
And I do—on the outside.
On the inside, I’m tracing routes in my head, mapping how to reach Da’s pocketknife from under my pillow without him noticing.
The stranger’s smile starts lazy, then collapses into something tighter, sadder. His eyes drag another long look down my body. “You really are ravishing, you know.”
His eyes land on my fuzzy Eff the Patriarchy socks slouching at my ankles as he speaks. “You and I can help each other, Riley,” he says.
I stare him down as I wrap my hand tight around the cold metal of the knife. That’s when the Scottish girl in me comes out. “I’m not sure how I can help a nutjob who fawns over unconscious women. Polite pass.”
He rises to his feet, and rubs the back of his neck. “Christ, if I wanted to hurt you, I easily could have. You would’ve woke up bound and gagged and in any assortment of compromising positions.”
“Are you trying to scare me?”
“I’m trying to tell you, Riley. You can trust me. I need your cooperation. Not your fight, little Scots girl.”
“How do you know I’m Scottish?”
A throat clears at the door.
Dominic steps back into the room, a cool compress in hand. He crosses to me and sets it gently against my temple.
The stranger shuts up instantly.
Obviously, there’s something I’m not supposed to know. But what?
As smooth as dodging goose shit, the stranger shifts gears. His eyes drift back over me with fresh interest.
“Red?” He pauses. “Plum?” he murmurs, softly speculative, head tilted. “With that long, dark hair and those eyes…perhaps something darker. A deep, rich wine.”
His gaze locks onto the glittering necklace circling my throat.
Black diamonds.
A million dollars’ worth of fuck-the-peasants money.
My leash.
And so damn heavy it took weeks to get used to their overbearing weight, especially after Zver added the tracker.
Zver let me run exactly twice before that charming little upgrade. Now his Find-My-Captive app is fully operational.
Which is exactly how he found me. I kick myself again. Only an idiot would think he’d install a tracker and not use it.
Transfixed, the man taps a finger thoughtfully against his lips. “Ah,” he murmurs softly, as if selecting next season’s runway palette. “Blood should be perfect.”
His eyes find mine, and recognize the alarm painted on my face like a nuclear warning.
He adds, “Blood red. As in, the color.”
