Page 7 of Sinner’s Torment

The door opened.

I didn’t hear it at first, too lost in the spiral of my own thoughts, too consumed by the terror flooding my system. But then I felt it. A shift in the air, a presence. I looked up as my vision blurred with unshed tears and saw Grace standing in the doorway. For a moment, we just stared at each other. Her gaze dropped to the pregnancy test on the floor, then back to my face, and I saw understanding dawn in her eyes.

She knew.

Of course she knew. Grace wasn’t stupid. She probably suspected something was off before I even pissed on the stick. I waited for her judgment, her condemnation, her cold dismissal I was sure would come.

But it didn’t.

Instead, Grace stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. She moved slowly, deliberately, like she was approaching a wounded animal. And maybe that was what I was, a cornered, terrified animal ready to bolt.

She crossed the small space and kneeled in front of me, her knees hitting the tile with a soft thud. Then she reached out and placed her hands over mine, her touch warm and steady and so unexpectedly gentle that it shattered the last of my composure.

I looked up at her, really looked at her, and saw something in her expression I had never seen before.

Compassion... and that was all it took.

The dam broke as I burst into tears.

Great, heaving sobs tore from my chest, ugly and raw and completely beyond my control. I couldn’t stop them, couldn’t hold them back, couldn’t do anything but cry as almost two months of fear and loneliness and grief came pouring out of me all at once.

Grace didn’t say anything. She didn’t ask questions or demand explanations. She just stayed there, kneeling on the cold bathroom floor, her hands covering mine, anchoring me while I fell apart.

And for the first time since this stupid war started, since I had been torn away from Torment and everything I had known, I didn’t feel so completely alone.

Since King claimed Grace, I hadn’t set foot in the private quarters they shared. I was a club whore and knew my place. I had my own space. A small room, shared bathrooms, and communal areas where I existed on the periphery of club life.

Grace guided me up the backstairs after I finally stopped crying, her arm steady around my waist. Each step creaked beneath us in the dim hush, her body a warm shield against the chill that seeped through the old walls. We avoided the main clubhouse, the sight of its ruined beams and patched walls a reminder of the recent attack, when bullets and blood left everything uncertain. Now the main hall felt haunted by what we all had lost. The laughter and music were replaced by anxious whispers and a sense of something fragile, like me, that might shatter with a single wrong move.

Now perched on the edge of Grace and King’s shared bed, the faded comforter felt soft beneath my thighs as I clutched a glass of water that felt icy against my palm, condensation slicking my fingers. It was heavy, grounding me, the only cool anchor in a room that felt stifling and cold at the same time. Grace pulled a chair close enough that I could hear the gentle scrape of its legs on the wooden floor, but she left a careful space. A pocket of air for me to breathe, not crowding, just present.

“How far along?” she asked quietly, her voice barely above a whisper, each word delicate as if afraid to break me.

I swallowed hard, my throat tight and scratchy. “I don’t know. Maybe eight weeks? Ten? I haven’t been to a doctor yet.” My voice trembled, lost in the quiet between us.

She nodded, lips pressed together in thought. “You need to. Soon.” The way she said it, gentle, not pressing, let me know it came from worry, not judgment.

“I know.” I stared at the water, watching the ripples from my unsteady grip.

“And the father?” Her voice softened even more, but the question landed sharp and cold in my chest. A knife I had been bracing for.

I looked down again, tracing the beads of condensation trailing down the glass, the cold biting into my skin. “I don’t know.” My voice was so small it almost vanished in the hush.

The words filled the space between us, heavy as thunderclouds, impossible to ignore. Grace didn’t flinch or turn away, didn’t let a flicker of judgment cross her face. She just waited, her patience a quiet comfort that let me breathe through the panic closing in. The only sound was the faint tick of her watch and our mingled breaths.

“I was careful,” I whispered, the words rough in my mouth. “I’m on the pill. I always used condoms. Always. But there were... there was one guy before the evacuation. And some others after we came back, when everything was still up in the air. I can narrow it down, but I can’t say for sure who—” My words broke apart, the room suddenly feeling colder, like the window had opened to let the wind in.

Grace reached out, her hand surprisingly warm as she squeezed my knee. A simple, steadying touch. “It’s okay,” she murmured. “Really. I remember what it was like after the attack. After we all returned. Everything was a jumbled mess, and tensions were still high. Sometimes, we do everything right, and life still throws a curveball.”

“It’s not okay.” My voice cracked, raw with fear. “King’s going to lose his shit. Everyone will think I’m careless and stupid and⁠—”

“Brandy.” Grace’s tone was firmer now, but still gentle, cutting through my spiral of panic. “You’re not stupid. And you’re not careless. Sometimes shit just happens, even when we do everything right. I’ve been there, too.” She let that hang between us. A small offering, a reminder that I wasn’t alone in the randomness of disaster.

I wanted to believe her. God, I wanted to believe her so badly. The taste of hope was as sharp and fleeting as the cold glass in my grip. But before I could respond, the door opened.

My entire body went rigid.

King filled the doorway, his massive frame blocking out the light from the hallway. He was wearing his cut, his President patch prominent on the leather, and his expression was unreadable as his gaze moved from Grace to me and back again.