Page 88 of Sinner’s Torment

I’d lost her twice now. Once when she’d run from the bedroom after I’d fucked her against the wall like an animal, unable to articulate what she meant to me. And again, when Stone Ward had taken her from that gas station while I’d been standing in a barn arguing about Federation rules and institutional politics and all the bullshit that didn’t matter. Not compared to her. Not compared to the life growing inside her.

Hex rode ahead of the SUV, his posture rigid, his shoulders set in a way that spoke of decades of violence and control. The man whose daughter I’d gotten pregnant. The man whose past had dragged Brandy into this nightmare. Beside me, Mercy kept pace, his presence steady and grounding as he gripped the steering wheel. Smokey and Dutch flanked us on either side, two weathered warriors who’d seen more blood and chaos than most men could imagine.

We were heading to war. And I didn’t know if we’d all make it back.

The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and red that looked too much like fire. Like blood. The fields stretched out on either side of us, endless and empty, and somewhere in that emptiness was the woman I loved. The woman carrying my child. The woman I’d failed to protect.

Hold on, Brandy, I thought, my hands clenching into fists until my knuckles went white. Just hold on. I’m coming.

We crested a hill, and there it was.

The farmhouse sat in the middle of a field like a rotting tooth, its walls sagging, its roof caving in on one side. The kind of place that had been abandoned for years, left to decay and collapse under the weight of time and neglect. But it wasn’t empty now. Not even close.

Motorcycles lined the driveway—at least a dozen, maybe more. Death Dogs’ patches gleaming in the fading light. Men scattered around the perimeter, some leaning against bikes, some standing in clusters, all of them armed. I could see the bulges of weapons under their cuts, the glint of metal in their hands. They weren’t trying to hide. They were waiting. Expecting us.

This was a trap. Stone had set it, baited it with Brandy, and now we were walking right into it.

I didn’t care.

My vision narrowed, tunneling down to that farmhouse. To the door. To the windows. To every possible entry point. I could feel the rage building in my chest, hot and vicious, demanding action. Demanding blood. I wanted Mercy to gun the engine, charge down that hill, and tear through every single one of those fuckers until we found her. Until we got her out. Until we made Stone pay for every bruise, every cut, every second of terror he’d inflicted on her.

My hand moved toward the gun holstered at my side, my body already shifting forward, ready to move⁠—

Mercy’s hand clamped down on my arm like a vise.

“Don’t.” His voice was low, steady, controlled. The voice of a man who’d talked brothers down from the edge more times than I could count. “Not like this.”

I wanted to shake him off. Wanted to punch through the SUV and charge that farmhouse and kill everyone inside. But before I could move, Hex was there, his bike pulling up beside us, his eyes locked on the farmhouse below.

“My girl dies if you rush in blind,” he said, his voice flat and emotionless. Clinical. Like he was discussing the weather instead of my woman’s life.

The words hit me like a physical blow. Brandy. My Brandy. Bleeding and broken and waiting for me to save her. And if I went in guns blazing, if I let the rage take over, Stone Ward would execute her before I made it through the door.

I forced myself to stop. To breathe. To think.

We were outnumbered at least three to one. Maybe more if there were Death Dogs inside the farmhouse we couldn’t see. Stone was expecting us—that was the whole point, the whole trap. He wanted Hex to come charging in, wanted to draw him out into the open so he could finish what he’d started over thirty years ago. And Brandy was the bait.

My hands were shaking. My entire body was vibrating with the need to act, to move, to do something. Hex sat on his bike beside the SUV, his presence grounding me beneath the weight pressing down on my chest.

“We get the numbers,” he said quietly, his eyes still on the farmhouse. “We get the plan. Then we get her out.”

I wanted to argue. Wanted to scream that we didn’t have time for numbers or plans or any of the tactical bullshit that would take precious minutes we didn’t have. But I knew he was right. I knew that rushing in would get Brandy killed. Would get our baby killed. Would get all of us killed.

So I forced myself to nod. Forced myself to pull back from the edge. Forced myself to think like a therapist instead of a man in love.

Mercy was already pulling out his phone, his fingers moving quickly across the screen. “We need bodies,” he said, his voice calm and measured. “Now.”

He dialed, and I watched as he put the phone to his ear, waiting for someone to pick up. The seconds stretched out, each one feeling like an hour. Finally, someone answered.

“Montana,” Mercy said, his voice clipped and professional. “We’ve got a situation. Connecticut border. Abandoned farm. Death Dogs have Brandy. We need bodies. As many as you can send.”

I couldn’t hear Montana’s response, but I saw Mercy’s jaw tighten, saw the way his eyes flicked to me and then back to the farmhouse. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s that bad. Stone has her. He’s using her to draw out Hex.”

Another pause. Then Mercy nodded. “Understood. How long?”

He listened, then pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at me. “Forty-five minutes. Maybe an hour. Montana said we were in luck. The Alabama Chapter showed up yesterday for the vote. Montana is sending everyone.”

Forty-five minutes.