Page 95 of SINS & Riley
And maybe I don't have any control over my life. But I can control the one thing my Da couldn't control.
Where and when I die.
“Ugh. That’s the problem with ghosts. You never fucking answer back.”
“Riley!”
For a split second, my blood ices.
Then I realize it’s not my Da. Nor is it Dante.
“I know you’re here!” The voice booms down the marble hall, all loud and cocky. His thick Russian accent announcing his presence like a bull in a Moscow china shop.
I don’t answer. Or run. Or hide.
Not that there’s any way to disappear in here.
Or anywhere on earth, really.
Hence why Zver is here now.
Tracker or no tracker, having Dominic’s car is basically a neon sign flashing over here.
Heavy footsteps make their way, closing and fast. Then, they stop.
I don’t even have to look to know he fills the doorway, flooding the room with that annoyingly dominant energy that suffocates everything in its path. Six pack and gun included.
His voice is oddly subdued. “There’s a weird trail of blood outside my office.” His tone dips. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
I fling an arm over my face. “Nope.”
“We need to talk.”
I scrub at my eyes with the heel of my hand. “Maybe I don’t want to talk. If you’re going to kill me, how about we skip past you monologuing me to death, and just do it. Let me rest in peace with someone worth loving.”
His head tilts, sharp as a blade testing skin. “If you’re referring to Dante, do you mean love? Or loathe?”
“Fuck you,” I snap, angry tears still dripping.
“Look at me, Pom.”
I blink the tears away and do.
Half of me wishes my scowl could hit him like a laser beam and shatter his non-existent heart.
The way he shattered mine.
The other half wishes I didn’t have to look at him at all.
God, why does he have to look so good? It’s like Michelangelo carved him as a special order request for the deadliest of all sins—lust.
Meanwhile, I’m rocking athleisure and a ponytail. DoorDash delivery, at your service.
He slides his hands into his pockets. His signature tell when he’s wrestling for control. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
I glare. “You’ve already hurt me.”
The sound that follows is closer to a growl than words. “Fine. I’m not going to kill you.”
