8. Riley
Riley
“W akey, wakey.”
For a second, I think I’m dreaming.
The voice is low. Rough. A growl someone forgot to leash.
And distinctly not Russian.
Not that I expected Zver to be here. He made himself very clear when he left.
“If our paths cross again, I’ll take more than a kiss.”
A kiss? Apparently that’s Russian for freight train of an orgasm .
And “a,” as in one?
Try three. Maybe four.
Though in my defense, by the end I couldn’t remember my name, let alone how to count.
The bed shifts.
Weight dips beside me.
Then the smell hits.
Coffee.
Waffles.
Fried chicken?
My nose twitches. My stomach groans. And my brain fries a little. And not just from the food.
Because under all that addictive smell—my hands-down favorite breakfast of all time, by the way—there’s something else.
Masculine. Earthy. Mingling with the clean, sharp scent of aftershave.
Still half-asleep, I fumble for the blindfold.
Drag it down.
Crack open one eye.
And find myself staring up at the face of a gorgeous man.
Too gorgeous.
A face I do not want this close to mine first thing in the morning.
Or ever, really.
Dante.
Of course it’s him. The broody one.
A statue carved straight from stone—just to prove that true perfection runs mercilessly cold.
Awesome .
Because, out of every D’Angelo brother, he’s the one who apparently hates me. For no reason at all, I might add.
Other than I’m in a strange bed, looking like I got dragged through a war zone, and currently the unscheduled disaster in his otherwise pristinely controlled day, yeah, I can’t really blame him.
“Dante?” I rasp, pushing up onto one elbow, trying to ignore the throb in my temples—or the fact that I’m swimming in sheets that smell suspiciously like sex.
He sips his coffee.
Then, without a word—in this weird, bizarrely casual way—he hands me the mug.
His mug.
The one he just drank from.
Like it’s normal.
Like any of this is.
And, let’s face it. I’ve got zero pride. Zero fight. And zero fucks left to give.
Frankly, I’m dying for a cup.
So yeah—I take it.
I savor a long sip, avoiding his eyes that drag down my body, then back up, slow and assessing.
A frown pulls at the corners of his already gloom-and-doom facade. The grim reaper in designer clothes.
“You want to tell me what you’re doing here?”
That voice.
Still low. Still edged like a blade tucked behind his teeth.
I blink up at him, brain foggy and uncooperative.
Not hungover.
Just scattered. Like puzzle pieces flung out the window of a car going 80 miles an hour.
I take a long sip of possibly the best coffee of my life and glance around the room.
The claustrophobic brick walls from last night feel less suffocating today. Even without a shred of sunlight creeping in.
Still the same cage.
But warmer somehow. Because of my Russian captor.
Which is probably worse.
“What are you doing here, Riley?”
Riley .
I roll my eyes. I hate the way he says my name—crossing the threshold between seduction and something he wants to wash out of his mouth.
My throat’s dry. Probably because I really don’t want to answer that question.
Another jolt of caffeine is all it takes to remember that it’s none of Dante’s goddamn business what I’m doing here.
“What I’m doing here?” I snatch a thick, golden chunk of fried chicken from the plate and take a bite, waving the crispy goodness at his arrogant face. “What are you doing here?”
Yes, exactly. Keep him on the defensive.
And ignore the fact that I’m the one wrapped in sheets scented with expensive laundry soap and sin.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. Just looks mildly annoyed as he says, “This is my place.”
“What?”
I pretend I didn’t just hear the part where I woke up in his bed.
My sister’s-husband’s-brother’s bed, to be exact.
I rip into my waffle like carbs can cleanse shame. Spoiler alert: it can’t. So, I deflect. “What kind of sicko lives in a place with no windows ?”
“First of all,” he says, holding up a fork and knife like he’s hosting a cooking show, “we have utensils.”
He illustrates by slicing clean through a piece of chicken and waffle, perfectly balanced.
“Second,” he says, still maddeningly calm, “I don’t live here. Though at this point, I might as well.”
“Huh?”
“It’s my club. The Inferno. ”
He gestures vaguely around us.
“And this is the VIP holding suite. For when someone’s too drunk, too loud, and too important to be tossed out on their ass with the rest of the degenerates.” A tight smirk breaks free. “Or possibly, someone too indisposed.”
As in naked.
And then, for no reason at all, he lifts the fork to my mouth.
And I?
Open.
Because I’ve officially lost control of my mind.
“Which brings me back to the question of the hour,” he says, smooth as cream. “What are you doing here?”
He sips his coffee. Calm. Controlled. Waiting for an answer I absolutely do not want to give.
I chew slowly, thinking.
Because, somehow, ended up getting thoroughly tongue-lashed by a madman until I came all over his face doesn’t feel like the right answer.
Neither does explaining the rest of the night I’ve had.
When I don’t answer, he lifts the coffee to my lips again. I sip, since apparently, this is what we do.
“Last I saw you,” he says, “you were at the wedding.”
His eyes flick over my face. Fast.
Too fast.
A deliberate skip over whatever bruises are blooming along my cheekbone.
“The wedding everyone ditched me at,” I huff around a bite, leveling him with a glare.
“Maybe if you hadn’t wasted time gawking at Father Marc, you wouldn’t have needed a babysitter.”
Babysitter? “I was not gawking .”
Then it hits me.
Wait.
“Hold on. You saw me ?”
That does it. Dante’s jaw clenches—sharp, hard, tight. One muscle twitch away from cracking a tooth.
This time, he’s the one who chews for a while. Long enough for me to start unraveling every possible meaning of that twitch.
I’m two seconds from spiraling into full blown what-the-actual-fuck mode when he shoves another perfect bite toward my mouth, clearly just to shut me up.
And yeah. It works.
For now.
“Look,” he says, blowing out a breath. “A wedding wasn’t exactly on my agenda last night. Father Marc and I had business. Business that your gawking was interfering with.”
“Business?” I deadpan. “Let me guess—he flung holy water at your broody face and screamed, ‘The power of Christ compels you.’ ”
Dante doesn’t flinch. Though I swear behind the roll of his eyes, I almost see a smirk fight for freedom against those full, frowny lips.
“Something like that.”
Then he leans in.
Just slightly. Just enough.
The space between us tightens, the air thick. I feel the heat of him like static on my skin.
His gaze dips. Not to my mouth, thank God, but just off of it. To my cheek, my neck…to all the bruises I’ve been pretending he can’t see.
And just like that, the smirk is gone. Replaced by something darker. Quieter.
His thumb barely skims my cheek. And for a beat, I don’t move. The air between us thrums, tight and trembling, like we’re suspended by a thread stretched too far.
Then his phone buzzes. And just like that, whatever existed between us fractures like thin ice beneath two people who have nowhere to go but under.
He checks the text. Barely a glance before that signature scowl snaps back into place like it never left. “I need to run.” His gaze flicks to me. Just once. “You can’t leave my club looking like that.”
“Excuse me?”
“Shower’s through there.” He nods toward a door like he didn’t just ignore me completely.
I throw up my hands. “Last I checked, you’re not the boss of me.”
“Closet’s stocked with everything from casual to couture. Grab what you need.”
I gape. “Did you hear what I said?”
He levels me with a look, equal parts irritation and indifference. “I’ll drive you home after my meeting. Since we’re”—he pauses, the word bitter on his tongue—“family.”
Wow.
Could he sound any more repulsed?
I fold my arms across my chest like armor. “Feels more like you’re my warden.”
He doesn’t blink. Just turns and makes his way to the door.
“You can’t keep me here,” I fire back.
He glances over his shoulder and casually taps a shiny padlock. “Don’t make me use this.”
That shuts me up.
Immediately.
Because every instinct in me says this man is not bluffing.
He straightens his tie. “I’ll be back in an hour.”
And then—he’s gone.
Just like that.
Door shut.
And me?
I’m left pacing this stupid, gilded holding suite, wondering exactly when the floor dropped out from beneath my life.
My gaze drifts around the room—brick walls, million-thread-count sheets, and enough leftover sexual tension to slice, box up, and stash away for when the universe isn’t actively plotting my downfall.
Then, just to test fate, I cross the room and twist the knob of the door Dante disappeared through.
Color me shocked when the damn thing actually opens.
Voices drift from down the corridor.
One louder than the rest—Dante’s, sharp and cold.
“Make sure she doesn’t go anywhere.”
Charming.
My gaze lands on the guard—just one—who promptly sinks into his chair and yawns the moment Dante’s out of sight.
Fine. Escape’s clearly not happening right this second.
Might as well wash off the lingering frustration from being dominated by two arrogant assholes.
I pivot toward the bathroom, storm inside, and crank the water to extra-scalding. Steam immediately swallows the room.
For the first time since the wedding, I force myself to look in the mirror.
It’s not the bruises that catch my attention. They’re actually less horrific than I expected.
No, it’s everything else that hits me as I strip down to the bare basics.
The ripped seam.
The torn strap.
The very-much-missing panties.
Which in all fairness, is not the Russian’s fault.
Whatever. I’ll track down my panties—and any surviving fragments of dignity—later.
Right now, I have exactly one priority: get the hell out of here.
Shower. Dress. Go.
Now that Dante’s so kindly revealed exactly where I am, all I need is twenty minutes and Mr. Sleep-Deprived to pass out for his morning siesta.
Then, I’m gone.