Page 74 of Sinner’s Torment

“Maybe not,” I admitted, brushing a strand of damp hair away from her flushed face, tucking it gently behind her ear. My thumb traced along her cheekbone, and she leaned into the touch despite herself. “But it’s a start.”

She didn’t respond. Didn’t argue. She just closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the wall, and I knew—without a doubt—that whatever happened next, whatever threats came our way, whatever complications the club or her father or the Federation threw at us, I wasn’t letting her go.

Not now.

Not ever.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Torment

I lowered her carefully to the floor, my hands steadying her as her legs trembled beneath her weight. My breathing was still heavy, ragged, my heart pounding against my ribs like it was trying to break free. I stepped back just enough to zip my pants, the sound of the zipper loud in the quiet room, and then I watched her.

I couldn’t stop watching her.

Every micro expression. Every shift in her body language. Every tiny tell that revealed what she was thinking, what she was feeling, what she was trying to hide. It was what I did—what I’d been trained to do—cataloging human behavior, reading the unspoken language of trauma and desire and fear. But with Brandy, it wasn’t clinical. It wasn’t professional. It was visceral. It was need.

Her body still trembled, aftershocks of pleasure rippling through her muscles. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. Her eyes were wide, unfocused, like she was still processing what had just happened between us. Like she was trying to reconcile the raw, desperate passion with the reality of who we were and what this meant.

And then I saw it—the moment the realization hit her. The moment she understood that I wasn’t walking away. That this wasn’t just sex. That I’d made my choice, and she was it. She was mine. The baby was mine. And I wasn’t letting her go, no matter what the club said, no matter what her father threatened, no matter what the Federation rules dictated.

Her expression shifted—confusion giving way to something softer, something vulnerable. Hope, maybe. Or fear. Or both tangled together so tightly she couldn’t separate them. She opened her mouth like she was about to say something, something important, something that might change everything⁠—

A sharp knock at the door shattered the moment.

My head snapped up, every muscle in my body going rigid. Brandy’s eyes flew to the door, panic flashing across her face. She scrambled for her clothes, grabbing her jeans and panties from where I’d discarded them on the floor. I gave her a few seconds, watching as she pulled them on with shaking hands, her movements frantic and uncoordinated.

When she was dressed—barely, her hair still wild and her lips still swollen from my kisses—I moved to the door and opened it.

Mercy stood in the hallway, leaning against the doorframe with a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. He knew. Of course he knew. He’d probably heard us, or maybe he’d just put two and two together when I’d dragged Brandy upstairs and disappeared into her bedroom. Either way, the knowing look in his eyes said everything.

“Brandy,” he said, nodding at her with exaggerated politeness, like he hadn’t just interrupted us in the aftermath of fucking against her bedroom wall.

She didn’t respond—just crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him.

Mercy’s grin widened, then he turned his attention to me. “Montana wants to talk to Hex. Meet me in the barn.” His tone left no room for argument, no space for negotiation. It was a command, plain and simple. He turned and walked away without waiting for a response, his boots heavy on the stairs as he descended.

The second he was gone, Brandy’s face hardened. The vulnerability I’d seen moments ago vanished, replaced by something cold and bitter. She sneered at me, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Go. Club first, right?”

The accusation cut deeper than it should have. Deeper than I wanted to admit. Because she was right. The club always came first. It was the code we lived by; the hierarchy that governed every decision, every action, every relationship. Brotherhood above all else. And here I was, standing in her bedroom with the taste of her still on my lips, and I was about to walk away because Montana had called.

I sighed, the sound heavy with frustration and resignation. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to stay here, to finish the conversation we’d started, to make her understand that this wasn’t just obligation or duty or club business. But I couldn’t. Not yet. Not until I dealt with whatever Montana wanted, whatever crisis was unfolding in the barn.

I nodded reluctantly, and that was all it took.

Brandy shoved past me, her shoulder slamming into mine with enough force to make me stumble back a step. She disappeared into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her. The sound of the lock engaging echoed through the room, sharp and final, like a door closing on something I’d just started to build.

I stood there for a moment, staring at the closed bathroom door, processing the shift. One moment I’d been inside her, feeling her body clench around me, hearing her muffled moans against my palm. And the next she was locked away from me—literally and figuratively—shutting me out because I’d chosen the club over her. Again.

I wanted to knock on the door. Wanted to tell her she was wrong, that she mattered more than Montana’s demands, more than the club’s expectations. But the words wouldn’t come. They never did. And even if they had, I wasn’t sure she would have believed me.

So I turned and left, closing her bedroom door quietly behind me.

The walk downstairs felt longer than it should have. Every step was weighted with the conflict tearing through me—Brandy, the baby, Hex, the mystery rider, Montana, the club. Everything collided at once, pulling me in a dozen different directions, and I didn’t know which way to go. I didn’t know how to balance the life I’d built in the MC with the life I wanted with her. And the worst part was, I wasn’t sure I could have both.

Outside, the air was cool and crisp, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the yard. I could see the barn in the distance, the door slightly ajar, light spilling out from inside. I walked toward it, my boots crunching on the gravel driveway, my mind racing with possibilities. What did Montana want with Hex? What could he possibly say that would make any difference? Hex had made his position clear—he wanted nothing to do with the MC world, and he sure as hell didn’t want his daughter dragged into it.

I reached the barn and stepped inside, the smell of oil and old leather hitting me immediately, mixed with the faint scent of hay and dust that seemed to cling to everything in this place. The space was dimly lit, with only a few weak rays of afternoon sunlight filtering through the gaps in the weathered wooden slats, leaving shadows pooling in the corners like dark water. The barn felt cavernous and oppressive at the same time, the high ceiling disappearing into darkness above while the walls seemed to close in around the tension crackling in the air.