Page 7 of SINS & Riley
“You’re Zver. You do the same.”
“Wrong.” I backhand him viciously, uncaring that the knife's blade grazes his eye. “Only a coward preys on women and children.”
The timer dings.
I glance down at my watch and exhale sharply, feigning disappointment. “Well, I’m afraid that’s all the time we’ve got for today.”
Without hesitation, I plunge the knife deep into Emilio’s shoulder, savoring his guttural scream, his body thrashing weakly against restraints already slick with his blood.
“We’ll pick up right here tomorrow.”
I turn and leave him to bleed, stepping into the dimly lit corridor and letting the heavy metal door swallow his screams with a satisfying click.
I make my way up the winding stairs to my suite, discarding my clothes and mask in the garbage chute.
For two months, I’ve deliberately avoided Riley. Maybe because some brain-dead part of me entertained the idea of letting her walk free. But freedom would be fatal—for both of us. The second she’s spotted, she’s as good as buried, and I’d quickly join her beneath the dirt.
Besides, I had my own wounds to lick.
Dominic wasn’t the only one scarred by that explosion. Flames branded me—my cheek, neck, back—leaving permanent reminders etched deep into my skin. Now, those burns have faded into pale scars, but not all scars are visible.
Dominic still has his family, whole and untouched.
Mine was torn away, leaving wounds that no amount of healing can close. And sometimes, that truth fucks with my head more than I care to admit. Makes me edgy. Unpredictable. A trapped beast caged in razor wire.
But the real reason Zapretnaya still breathes under my roof?
I’m nowhere near finished with her yet. Not even close.
Lately, she’s been testing my limits. Constantly pushing every boundary I’ve drawn like a cartographer.
It’s high fucking time she learned the price of crossing those lines.
And judging by where she’s ended up right now, today's lesson plan just got a whole hell of a lot more hands-on.
3
RILEY
“The doctor will see you in two weeks.”
The receptionist’s voice drips sickly-sweet, perfectly matching her aggressively peroxided hair and bubblegum-pink lips. She beams at the woman ahead of me.
A woman I’m trying very hard not to stare at.
I force my eyes from the gentle swell beneath her dress, and the nauseating glow radiating from her face. And the tall man beside her shifts closer. Possessive fingers span the small of her back, whispering promises of forever without saying a single word.
She’s everything I’m not.
Loved, protected, and wanted.
When his lips brush her temple, a vicious pang slices through my gut.
I suddenly hate him. Hate them both. But Dante? Dante climbs to the top of the list.
“Dying was incredibly inconvenient of you,” I mutter, teeth clenched.
Maybe I’m cracking. Or maybe hormones are the devil’s amphetamine—pushing me to the edge of a cliff, promising a sweet little breakdown.
