Page 86 of SINS & Riley
Then my eyes catch the name of the ordering physician, and I let out a long, slow breath.
Dr. Sterling.
The same worthless fuckwit who happened to stab his own hand and had to stitch it up like a back-alley butcher. I don’t know if he’s too stupid, or too brazen, to take the goddamn hint.
What? Does he need it tattooed across his fucking forehead? Stay away from my girl.
Seriously, fuck Darwinism. It moves at a goddamn snails pace with men like him.
I can think of a dozen ways to accelerate the process.
Dominic reads my violent streak like a kids’ menu coloring page—easy lines, no room for confusion—and simply shakes his head. “Riley won’t discuss it.”
Of course, she won’t. My little chatterbox tends to clam up when she openly defies me.
A sharp, humorless laugh scrapes out of me. “Then she learns the hard way. She doesn’t get a choice.”
When is she going to get it through her thick, beautiful head that when it comes to her, there are no secrets.
I mean, I already know about the baby. Though I can’t exactly lead with that. Especially since she’s made it a point to keep it out of her journal.
She won’t come clean. Not even when she knows she’s pregnant, or when her personal safety is a crashing plane spinning out of control.
It scrapes my patience raw, like a razor dragged over skin.
And while I’m not blind to the hypocrisy, in this moment, I simply don't give a shit. Yes, I’m keeping my own secrets from her.
Zver’s mask, hello?
But my uncle knows she’s alive. And Enzo’s seen her.
What’s next? A press release?
I move for the door.
Dominic steps in, blocking my path.
“She’s pretty shaken up. I don’t think she needs?—”
“Spare me the lecture on what you think she needs.”
His deadpan doesn’t waiver. “I’m pretty sure she doesn’t need you storming in, chest pounding, threatening to murder six random men if she doesn’t vomit up every detail of her traumatic afternoon.”
“First of all—” I hold up a finger. “They’re never random.” He should know. Most of the scum on Uncle Andre’s payroll pass through his filter first.
“And second—” I lift another finger. “I know exactly what Riley needs.”
A shock collar comes to mind.
Maybe a human-sized electric fence while we’re at it.
“Where is she?”
He exhales, shoulders sinking. “Her room.”
“Then that’s where I’ll be.”
Trauma bonding with the prisoner.
