Page 40 of SINS & Riley
I already know that’s where they keep the monster. But what else is hidden there?
Once, I joked with Dominic, “Is that where he tortures people?”
He didn’t answer.
Despite every red flag screaming murderer’s lair, my subconscious doesn’t care. It happily turns the East Wing into some twisted mashup of Notre Dame and Disney’s Haunted Mansion.
Gargoyles. Ghosts. Chains clanking down candlelit halls.
Zver cuts through my fantasy. “No.”
“No?” I’m actually pouting now.
He shifts me higher against his chest, the move too smooth, too controlled. My fingertips snag his collar, then trail lower to the broad muscles beneath.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react at all.
He just repeats himself, firmer this time, like he needs to hear it as much as I do. “We are not going to my room.”
“Why not?”
An irritated huff rumbles out of him. “I know you, Zapretnaya.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Snooping is your trademark.” Okay, maybe he does know me.
Reckless as a cat on her eighth life, I push back.
“If I’m blindfolded, what does it matter?”
“Exactly my point.”
He’s got me there.
I tilt my chin, straining for any glimpse through the blindfold’s slit. All I get is blur and shadows.
“Why Ricardo Ricci?” I ask. “You could’ve just—oh, I don’t know—bought a dress.”
His exhale is slow, measured. “He is the best.”
And he’s right. No argument there. The man’s a genius.
“Still, kidnapping a dressmaker just to squeeze a designer gown out of someone feels a little… extra,” I say, swinging my legs.
“You will only have the best.”
My pulse stutters. Warmth floods my chest. A compliment? A kindness?
The quiet pride of possession?
I don’t know which, and it shuts me up. For a hot minute.
The rhythm of his stride changes. Sometimes slow, sometimes a full stop.
A left.
A right.
