Page 57 of Sinner’s Torment

But family loyalty?

Family loyalty was unconditional.

It didn’t matter what I’d done or where I’d been or what mistakes I’d made. It didn’t matter that I’d dropped out of college or lied about college or gotten pregnant by a man whose world was built on violence and chaos.

I was still loved.

I had always been loved.

I just hadn’t understood it until now.

“Dad!” Chris’s voice cut through the moment, sharp and urgent. “Someone’s coming up the drive!”

I stiffened, my heart lurching in my chest.

Dad pulled back, his hands gripping my shoulders as he looked down at me. His eyes were red-rimmed but fierce, protective in a way I’d never seen before.

“Go find your mom,” he said quietly, his voice steady despite the emotion in his eyes. “I’ll handle this.”

“Dad—”

“Go,” he said firmly, kissing my forehead. “I’ve got this.”

I hesitated, my stomach twisting with fear and uncertainty. But the look in his eyes—the absolute certainty, the unwavering determination—told me there was no point in arguing.

So I turned and walked back toward the house, my legs shaking, my heart pounding.

Behind me, I heard the crunch of tires on gravel.

And I knew—without looking, without seeing—that everything was about to change.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Torment

I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

Brandy. Her name circled through my head like a mantra, like a prayer I didn’t know how to finish. Every mile that passed beneath the tires of Mercy’s SUV brought me closer to her, and every mile made the knot in my chest tighten until I could barely breathe. My fingers drummed against my thigh in a restless rhythm that matched the pounding of my heart.

I’d been thinking about her non-stop since Shame had finally tracked her down—Bethlehem, Connecticut, living with her family in a house I’d never seen, surrounded by people I’d never met. A whole life I knew nothing about because I’d never asked. Because she’d been a club whore, and club whores didn’t get questions. They got used and forgotten. That was the rule. The unspoken code that everyone understood and no one questioned.

Except I hadn’t forgotten her. Not even close. Not her laugh, not the way her eyes lit up when she smiled, not the softness of her voice when she whispered my name in the dark. Weeks had passed since I last saw her, and she was still there in my head, haunting me like a ghost I couldn’t exorcise. I’d tried to move on, tried to bury those memories under booze and distractions and empty hookups that left me feeling hollower than before. Nothing worked. Nothing stuck. It was always her face I saw when I closed my eyes.

And now she was carrying my child.

The thought should have filled me with something—pride, maybe, or protectiveness, or even joy. Something warm and affirming that made me feel like I was ready for this, like I could handle what was coming. But all I felt was terror. Raw, unfiltered terror that clawed at my insides and whispered that I was going to fuck this up the same way I’d fucked up everything else that mattered. That voice in my head was relentless, cataloging every mistake I’d ever made, every relationship I’d damaged, every opportunity I’d squandered through my own stupidity or cowardice or both. It reminded me that good intentions had never been enough before, so why the hell would they be enough now? The weight of responsibility pressed down on my chest like a physical thing, making it hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to do anything except sit there and marinate in my own inadequacy.

The same way I’d fucked up with Elise.

Her name was a wound that had never healed, a scar tissue that pulled tight every time I let myself think about her. Elise. My submissive. The woman I’d loved in a way I’d never loved anyone before or since. The woman who’d trusted me completely, who’d given herself over to my control without hesitation, who’d looked at me like I was everything she needed.

And I’d killed her.

Not intentionally. Not maliciously. But I’d killed her all the same. That was what haunted me most—what kept me awake at three in the morning, staring at the ceiling, replaying those final moments over and over again. Not the accident itself—accidents happened, even in the most controlled environments, even when you followed every protocol, checked every knot, monitored every breath—but the fact that I’d lost control. That for one critical moment, I hadn’t been paying attention the way I should have been. That I’d been so focused on the aesthetic, on the beauty of the scene, on the way the ropes created those perfect geometric patterns across her skin, that I’d missed the signs of distress until it was too late. Her breathing had changed. Her color had shifted. And I’d been too absorbed, too entranced by my own creation, to notice until those precious seconds had already slipped away.

And ever since then, I’d held myself back. I’d built walls around myself, brick by brick, until I was safely locked away from everything that had once brought me joy.

I’d never scened again. I’d never let myself fully give in to those raw desires that had once defined me, that had once felt like the truest expression of who I was. I’d become a therapist instead, helping others navigate their kinks and their traumas, always maintaining that professional distance, always keeping myself locked down tight. I listened to their stories, helped them process their experiences, guided them toward healthier expressions of their desires—all while denying myself those same freedoms. The irony wasn’t lost on me.