Page 30 of SINS & Riley
He digs in his men’s Louboutin heels. “I have designs in there,” Ricardo says, voice steady but slick. It’s not about the sketches. It’s a sly play to smuggle Riley’s note to Kennedy.
“Designs you’re willing to die for?”
I know I’m being an asshole. But I need him to fight harder than this.
And to feed every detail back to my brothers.
Dramatic as ever, he squares his shoulders, tone flat and stoic.
“A true designer would die for his art.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
I toss the notebook back. He catches it one-handed, slides it into his pocket, and glances at the guards.
“Is the bag really necessary? I promise to keep my eyes closed.”
“Pinky swear?” I ask facetiously.
I snap my fingers.
The guard doesn’t even blink.
The black bag drops over his head.
10
RILEY
I hate that the chair’s arms are smooth. No grooves. No splinters.
Nothing to dig into.
My fingers twitch against the aged wood, wrists fighting the silk binding me down. It’s triple-wrapped and knotted so tight, I might as well be gorilla glued to the damn chair.
Two of the guards did the honors. All brute force and no finesse. Heavy-handed, fast, and their eyes trained everywhere but on me.
Smart move, considering I doubt Zver would forgive anyone gawking at his favorite toy.
Which is just as well. This dress is paper-thin, and the room’s cold enough, if they did look, my nipples alone would take out an eye.
The split second they leave the room, I yank like hell. Not some delicate little tug. A full Godzilla thrash.
The silk doesn’t budge.
“Gah!”
By this point, I don’t need to be free. I just need a sliver of control. A nice, sharp edge I can sink my flesh into so I don’t freak the fuck out.
Is that too much to ask?
And yes, I know tearing my fingertips is stupid. Habit, not logic. But pain is the only thing my mind ever listens to. Dante got that. He turned pain into worship.
What burned between us wasn’t mercy. It was fire. If the pregnancy tests are right, that spark has a life in it now, and it’s about to become a raging inferno.
I try not to think of that and suck in a breath. I drive my nails into the pads of my hands, hunting for a shred of skin to steal back some sense of command.
Kennedy’s voice hisses in the back of my skull. If you keep biting your nails, you’ll regret it.
