Page 75 of Sinner’s Torment

In the center of the space stood Mercy and Hex, toe-to-toe, their voices raised in an argument that had clearly been going on for a while. Both men were rigid with tension, their shoulders squared and their fists clenched at their sides. The air between them practically vibrated with barely contained aggression.

“—just talk to him,” Mercy was saying, his tone firm but not aggressive, his hands held out slightly in a placating gesture. “That’s all Montana’s asking. Just hear what he has to say. Give him a chance to explain the situation.”

“No.” Hex’s voice was cold, controlled, but there was a seething rage underneath it, barely contained, like magma churning beneath a thin crust of rock. His jaw was tight, a muscle twitching in his cheek. “I don’t have to do shit. I’m not a brother. I’m not part of any club. I don’t owe Montana—or anyone else—a goddamn thing.”

“He’s trying to help,” Mercy insisted, taking a small step closer, his voice dropping slightly as if he could somehow defuse the situation through sheer reasonableness. “He’s trying to figure out a way to make this work. To protect Brandy and the baby without violating Federation rules. You know how complicated this is.”

“Federation rules,” Hex repeated, his voice dripping with contempt, practically spitting the words. He shook his head slowly, a bitter smile twisting his lips. “You mean the rules that were put in place specifically to keep me and my family out of your world? The rules that were designed to punish me for daring to fight back against the men who betrayed me? Those rules?”

Mercy’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t back down. “Those rules exist for a reason⁠—”

“Those rules exist because three cowards decided it was easier to silence me than to admit what they’d done,” Hex snapped, his voice rising for the first time since I’d walked into this tense standoff. The sudden shift in his tone made the air in the room feel heavier, more dangerous. “William Doherty. Titan. And that lying bastard, George motherfucking Stone.”

The way he said George Stone’s name—the venom dripping from every syllable, the hatred that seemed to radiate from his very core, the raw, visceral fury that twisted his features into something almost unrecognizable—made my blood run cold. This wasn’t just old MC business, the kind of petty disputes that got settled over a few rounds at the bar or a fistfight in the parking lot. This wasn’t just a grudge or a disagreement over club politics, territory disputes, or who wore what patch on their vest. This was personal. This was deep. This was the kind of betrayal that left scars that never healed, the kind that festered and rotted until it consumed everything around it.

I stepped forward, my boots heavy on the worn floorboards, my presence finally registering with both men. Mercy glanced at me over his shoulder, his expression grim and weary, like he’d been dreading this conversation for years and knew exactly how badly it could end. Meanwhile, Hex’s eyes narrowed dangerously, his entire body tensing as he assessed me like a predator evaluating potential prey—deciding whether I was a threat or just another obstacle in his way, another person trying to keep him from whatever justice or revenge he’d been seeking all these years.

“What does George Stone have to do with this?” I asked, keeping my voice steady and calm despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins like liquid fire. My heart was pounding, but I couldn’t let either of them see that this situation had me rattled.

Hex’s gaze locked onto mine with an intensity that felt like a physical force, and for a moment—just a brief, flickering instant—I thought he might actually answer. I could see the war playing out behind his eyes, the debate between keeping his secrets buried and finally letting someone else carry the weight of whatever truth he’d been shouldering alone. But then his expression hardened like steel cooling after being forged, his jaw clenching, and he shook his head slowly. “That’s none of your fucking business.”

“It is if it affects Brandy,” I shot back, my voice rising with frustration. “If Montana’s father is connected to whatever happened to you, then it’s my business. Because I’m not letting her get caught in the crossfire of some decades-old vendetta.” I took a step closer to him, my fists clenched at my sides. “I don’t care how deep this goes or how many secrets you’re keeping. If it puts her at risk, I have a right to know.”

“You don’t get to decide that,” Hex said, his voice low and dangerous, each word deliberate and measured. “You don’t get to waltz in here and act like you have any say in what happens to my daughter. You’ve known her for what, a few weeks? A couple months?” His eyes blazed with fury. “You’re the reason she’s in this mess in the first place. If you hadn’t claimed her, hadn’t dragged her into club business, she’d be safe right now.”

“I’m trying to fix it,” I said through gritted teeth, fighting to keep my temper in check. Every muscle in my body was coiled tight, ready to strike. “I’m trying to protect her. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

“By dragging her deeper into the club?” Hex laughed, the sound bitter and humorless, echoing off the barn walls. “By claiming her and tying her to a world that will destroy her the same way it destroyed me? That’s not protection. That’s a death sentence.” He shook his head, disgust written across his weathered features. “You’re signing her death warrant and calling it love.”

I opened my mouth to argue, to demand answers about George Stone and what he’d done to earn Hex’s hatred, to defend my choices and my claim on Brandy. But before I could speak, before I could unleash the torrent of words building in my chest, Mercy’s phone buzzed in his pocket, cutting through the thick tension like a knife.

He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and his expression shifted from watchful neutrality to something sharper, more alert. “It’s Montana.”

The tension in the barn ratcheted up another notch, the air suddenly so thick I could barely breathe. Hex’s jaw clenched, the muscles jumping beneath his skin, his hands curling into white-knuckled fists at his sides. Mercy looked between us, his eyes calculating, weighing the situation. Then he answered the call, putting it on speaker so we could all hear.

“Montana,” Mercy said, his voice carefully neutral. “You’re on speaker. Torment and Hex are here.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, a moment of silence that seemed to stretch on forever. Then Montana’s voice came through, rough and strained but unmistakably commanding, carrying the weight of authority that came with being president of the club. “Hex. We need to talk.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Brandy

The second I heard the bedroom door click shut behind Torment, I moved.

No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just pure, instinctive action driven by the kind of panic that made your hands shake and your heart pound so hard you could feel it in your throat. I walked out of the bathroom—where I’d been standing frozen, staring at my own reflection like I could find answers in the mirror—and grabbed the small duffel bag from the top shelf of my closet. The one I’d used when I first ran away from home at eighteen. The one that had carried everything I owned when I’d shown up at the Silver Shadows’ clubhouse with nowhere else to go.

It felt fitting, somehow, that I’d be using it again now.

I threw it on the bed and started packing. Clothes first—jeans, shirts, underwear, whatever I could grab from the dresser without thinking too hard about what I actually needed. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely grip the fabric, but I forced myself to keep moving. Keep packing. Keep doing something, anything, so I didn’t have to think about what had just happened. About what I’d just let happen.

About the way Torment had looked at me when he’d kissed me after hearing the baby’s heartbeat. Like I mattered. Like I was more than just the vessel carrying his child.

But that was a lie. It had to be. Because men like Torment didn’t look at women like me that way. Not really. Not when it counted.

I grabbed my toothbrush from the bathroom, my hairbrush, the cheap makeup I’d bought at a drugstore months ago. Shoved them all into the bag without bothering to organize anything. My movements were frantic, chaotic, driven by a desperation I couldn’t name but felt in every cell of my body. I needed to leave. Now. Before Torment came back upstairs. Before he tried to talk to me again. Before I let myself believe in something that would never, ever be real.

Because that was what this was, wasn’t it? A fantasy. A delusion. The kind of stupid, naïve hope that got girls like me destroyed.