Page 12 of SINS & Riley
“Fine,” he finally rasps. “You have five minutes. But that door stays cracked.”
The instant my hand drops away, without another word, Zver leaves, Dominic behind him.
True to his word, the door is left cracked just enough I’m pretty sure they’re hanging on every word.
The doctor exhales a tight breath, and reaches for his stethoscope. “And I thought I’d head out early.” His half-hearted grin is quickly erased by a warm smile. “Please. Have a seat miss…”
“Riley.” I might as well say it. Zver said it first.
He nods absently, moving the stethoscope in position. “Right. Riley.” He listens, eyes fixed away from my face. "Symptoms?" His voice is measured with quiet reassurance.
“Um,” I say cautiously, glancing toward the sliver of open door. There’s no point hiding anything. I need answers. Quietly, I say, “Dizzy spells.”
He nods, moving the stethoscope to my back. “Deep breath in. Long breath out.”
I comply, trying to steady the tremor in my breaths.
His eyes flick briefly to mine, searching. "Anything else? Headaches? Nausea?"
I nod. “Sometimes."
He moves closer, voice dropping lower until the heat of his breath is in my ear. "Any chance you could be pregnant?"
My heart trips, panic spiking.
I flick another glance toward the cracked door.
"Definitely not," I chuckle loud and sharp, but my gaze locks onto the doctor’s clear, ice-blue eyes, and I slowly, deliberately nod yes.
“I see.” He rummages swiftly through his desk drawer. “The easiest way to rule things out—or in.”
The doctor’s gaze flicks anxiously between me and the slightly cracked door, his throat bobbing visibly for the first time. “I’ll need to draw blood,” he whispers cautiously.
“Okay,” I breathe, eyes darting nervously toward that narrow gap.
Can he do it without Zver knowing?
He glances down at my sweatshirt, inspecting the too tight sleeves. Of course, today, of all days, I wore a hoodie and not a zip-up. But I never know when I’ll be rained on at the cemetery. “You’ll, um, need to take that off.”
I’m no stranger to undressing in front of doctors. Defiantly, I’ve shown countless white coats Jimmy’s handiwork. The sickening black-and-blues painted brutally along my arms and legs.
Not that it ever made a damn bit of difference.
My step-monster had a knack for finding doctors who’d turn a blind eye and sign off on my physicals for school.
When this doctor stands there, waiting, a chill creeps down my spine.
As always, I refuse to let him see how uncomfortable it makes me.
Swiftly, I pull the sweatshirt over my head, the soft cotton sliding off.
The chill bites my exposed skin, raising instant goosebumps along my arms. I’ve jogged in less clothes, worn tighter outfits than this stupid sports bra with these jeans.
Yet something about the way his gaze drags over my body sends an uneasy ripple over me. Like spider legs over bare skin.
He’s just a fucking doctor, Riley. Not a letch.
Pull yourself together.
