Page 31 of SINS & Riley
Truer words, sis.
I hate that you’re right. Hate that you’re always right. And most of all, I hate that you’re not here when I need you most.
I huff and sit.
And sit some more.
Time thins until it’s just a stretched wire, humming under my skin.
My eyes wander the room. I’ve studied this place to death: stone arches rolling up and away, vaulted ceilings carved in a pattern that catches light like a crown. Enormous picture windows that should stare out over a cliff’s edge, a view ruined by night.
The kind of wealth passed down by blood. Or taken by it.
For a blink the coat of arms hooks me. I study the Russian glyphs I can’t read, hunting for the story they’re pretending to tell.
Two blades torn through crimson and gold. A serpent strangling a skull. A blood-red rose sprouting from crossbones.
It’s brutal and ridiculous and… breathtaking.
But it’s hardly what I’d call a coat of arms. We Scots keep things simple: part zoo, part armory, part don’t-fuck-with-us.
The silence ticks along to the point I bend down and try prying the knots with my teeth. Because obsession and I, we’ve always had a thing.
And yes, this is definitely a punishment. So very Zver.
Swift death for his enemies.
Slow torture for me.
Usually, he strips away my beloved dark rom-coms and alpha shifters while I sleep. Truly, the man’s a monster.
But he always leaves one thing behind. My journal. Probably because he enjoys cracking it open and crawling around in my head.
And just in case he does, I give him every filthy fantasy I can conjure up.
Headmasters and rulers.
Forced dirty confessions.
Strip bargaining, where I take off all my clothes and he sheds every last piece of his, including the mask.
Which then detonates into an enemies-to-lovers rage so scorching it reads like a pornographic burn book.
Today’s entry practically writes itself, though it’s definitely more of a psychological thriller.
Pissed-off Zver.
Sat in silence for freaking ever.
Pretty sure I hear a Chianti being uncorked and lambs screaming.
The door creaks.
Is it him?
Each stomp hammers the room and my pulse until the beats blur together.
I don’t even know if it’s him. Maybe Ricardo was the warm-up. Maybe it’s someone else. Someone worse.
