Page 15 of SINS & Riley
He lets out a nervous chuckle. “Look, pal, I’m not sure why I’d do something like that… Zver, was it?” His tone shifts, adopting the casual, conversational approach favored by shrinks and hostage negotiators.
Too bad it’s completely undermined by the tremor rattling his tone.
My lips curl slowly, a predator savoring the scent of fear. “And yet, you will.”
“She needs rest,” Sterling insists, shifting tactics abruptly. Ah, the classic pivot—when all else fails, fall back on the facts. “She, um…”
His voice catches, choking on his own bullshit as his trembling hands fumble toward the drawers. He clears his throat roughly, professional sounding to a desperate fault. “She has a sinus infection. I have antibiotics for her.”
“Hopefully you’re a better doctor than you are a liar.”
Slowly, deliberately, Sterling reaches for something in the center drawer. My Glock sits heavy in the holster beneath my coat, but firing it isn’t on today’s agenda.
I know exactly what he’s reaching for. Hell, I want him to reach for it.
That drawer contains precisely three items: a vial of coke, a flask of whiskey, and a meticulously polished hunting knife I discovered earlier.
While my stubborn little Zapretnaya was busy squeezing herself through the smallest fucking window imaginable, I was here.
I’d already mapped out every possible destination she might run to.
And as amusing as it might’ve been to see Riley’s big green eyes widening at the triple-X bookstore two doors down, I knew exactly where she’d run.
Here.
Moments before I’d disabled Sterling’s pathetic security cameras, I’d made myself comfortable in his overpriced chair, feet propped up as I watched the esteemed Dr. Sterling conclude a session with one of his so-called "patients."
He’d lined her pussy with enough blow to numb a thoroughbred, then proceeded to snort himself senseless.
He’d concluded his session by cramming a wad of cash into her hands, then shoved her out the back door half-naked.
Dr. Asshole’s a real class act.
But just when I think dipshits are predictable, he surprises me. He backs cautiously away from the drawer, hesitating like a man suddenly reconsidering his swan dive off a cliff.
Instead, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, orange plastic vial of pills.
A bit of a buzzkill, but whatever.
My eyes flick between his trembling fingers and his carefully crafted expression.
“Antibiotics,” he says, rattling the bottle for effect before casually tossing it onto the desk between us. “She needs these.”
Yeah, the odds I’ll let my sweet little Pom swallow anything from this scumbag are about the same as Satan enjoying a nice, refreshing icicle butt plug.
Patience gone, I stare him down coldly. “Riley’s no more sick than you’re free of STDs.”
His eyes flare, composure finally fracturing. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Ignoring his weak protest, I step closer, knocking the pills off the desk and pointing deliberately at the small vial of Riley’s blood. “I’ll be back for these results in two days.”
“I need at least three,” he insists quickly.
“Technically, you only need fifteen minutes,” I say flatly. “The extra time is for your recovery.”
His brows pinch in confusion. “Huh?”
“Never mind. Let’s focus on something you’ll understand. If Riley returns, keep your fucking hands off her.”
