Page 27 of SINS & Riley
He fusses with my hair, fingers moving like it’s go-time backstage at Fashion Week.
“You said we had a deal,” I blurt.
He nods once. “We do.” His chin tips toward the en suite. “I left my notebook in there.” His voice drops, careful, even though it’s just us. “No cameras in that room.”
He’s right. No windows either—just skylights I already tried to reach. A month later, and my arse still hasn’t forgiven me for that landing.
“Whatever you write in it goes to your sister,” he promises.
“When?” I press.
“When I can.” His annoyance means that’s all I’m going to get.
I roll my eyes, teeter in these sadistic heels, and slide into the bathroom.
The notebook is just where he said, waiting on the counter. I unclip the pen, flip to a blank page—and my hand stops.
What the hell do you even write to the person you love when you might not ever see them again?
“Sorry I didn’t call back” sounds ridiculous.
“Got auctioned off to a Russian” sounds worse.
I don’t want her to panic. A cry for help could fling her straight into the center of Zver’s web.
It’s a small miracle she’s not already on his radar. But maybe her being married to the Lord of Hell has its perks. Like protection.
Still, what if I never see her again?
That fear worms through my chest and stabs a pin in my heart. I let Enzo wedge between us. I should’ve fought harder. Done more. Done… better.
And—God, I have to breathe through this one—what if I really am pregnant? I can’t picture bringing a child into this world without my sister knowing. Without her beside me.
Knock, knock, knock. “Everything alright?” Ricardo asks.
“Peachy keen.”
I stare down at the blank page. The very tiny blank page. This is supposed to be a note, not twenty pages of emotional fallout.
I squeeze my eyes shut and tilt my face up to Heaven.
Da. Give me the words. What do I say?
9
ZVER
“Not so fast, Mr. Ricci.”
My voice cuts through the marble hall as he nears the door.
He’s flanked by two of my guards. They hover, waiting for my order.
Kill him, or let him live.
Dismissively, I flick my wrist.
They’re gone. A blur of muscle and footsteps, the black bag meant for Ricardo’s head swinging from the bigger guard’s hand.
