Page 91 of Sinner’s Torment

The words settled over me like a benediction, and I felt something shift in my chest. Something that had been locked down and buried for years. Hope. Fragile and tentative, but real. “I’d die for her,” I said, my voice steady now, certain. “Without hesitation. Without regret.”

“I know,” Hex said simply. “I can see it in your eyes. The same look I had when I met Hannah. The same desperation. The same certainty.”

“I want to be a father to that baby,” I continued, needing him to understand the full scope of what I was offering. What I was promising. “I want to marry her. I want to build a life with her. I want to wake up every morning and know that she’s mine and I’m hers and nothing in this world can change that. I want that more than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

Hex studied me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine, cataloging every micro-expression, every shift in body language. Then he nodded slowly, and I saw the decision settle over him like armor. “Then we get her out. Alive. Safe. And we figure out the rest together.”

He extended his hand to me, and I stared at it for a moment, understanding the weight of what he was offering. Not asking permission. Not granting approval. Offering partnership. Offering alliance. Offering trust. I took his hand, and his grip was firm, solid, unbreakable. “You’re going to marry her,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of a command and a blessing all at once. “And you’re going to be a good father. And I’m going to stop getting in the way of that.”

“I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure she never regrets choosing me,” I said, my voice rough with emotion. “I’m going to protect her and love her and give her everything she deserves. I swear it.”

Hex’s grip tightened, and I saw something flicker in his eyes. Respect, maybe. Or recognition. “Good,” he said simply. Then he released my hand and turned back to the farmhouse. “Because if you don’t, I’ll kill you myself.”

I almost smiled at that. Almost. “Fair enough.”

We sat there in silence for another moment, both of us staring at the farmhouse, both of us processing what had just happened. We weren’t enemies anymore. We weren’t adversaries. We were allies. Brothers, in a way that transcended blood and club patches and all the bullshit politics that had tried to keep us apart. We were two men who loved the same woman, and we were about to go to war to get her back.

In the distance, I heard the rumble of motorcycle engines. Multiple bikes, moving fast, heading our way. I turned and saw headlights cutting through the darkness, a convoy of riders approaching from the east. The Soulless Sinners. The cavalry.

Time was up. The wait was over.

Hex stood, his movements fluid and controlled despite his age, and I rose beside him. We stood shoulder to shoulder, watching the headlights grow closer, watching the farmhouse below, watching the Death Dogs start to notice the approaching bikes and scramble into defensive positions. The air crackled with tension, with anticipation, with the promise of violence.

“Let’s go get my daughter,” Hex said, his voice low and dangerous.

I nodded, my hand moving to the gun at my side, my entire body coiling with readiness. “And your grandbaby.”

Hex glanced at me, and for the first time since I’d met him, I saw him smile. It was a cold smile, a predator’s smile, the smile of a man who’d spent decades perfecting the art of violence. “My grandbaby,” he repeated, testing the words. Then he nodded. “Yeah. Let’s bring them home.”

The bikes pulled up behind us, engines cutting off one by one, and I heard boots hitting the ground, voices calling out, weapons being checked. Montana’s voice rose above the rest, barking orders, coordinating positions, preparing for the assault. Mercy appeared at my side, his expression grim but determined. Smokey and Dutch flanked Hex, their weathered faces set in hard lines.

We were ready. All of us. Ready to tear through that farmhouse and everyone in it. Ready to bring Brandy home. Ready to end this.

I looked at Hex one more time, and he met my gaze with steady certainty. We didn’t need words. We understood each other perfectly. We were no longer adversaries. We were brothers about to go to war.

And God help anyone who stood between us and the woman we both loved.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Torment

Headlights cut through the darkness like knives, twin beams slicing across the ridge and illuminating the farmhouse below in harsh, unforgiving light. The rumble of motorcycle engines grew louder, closer, a sound that vibrated through my chest and made my teeth ache. I turned to see them cresting the hill—a convoy of bikes, at least fifteen, maybe more, their riders silhouetted against the night sky like avenging angels descending from hell itself. The New York Chapter of the Soulless Sinners, riding hard and fast, their engines roaring with barely contained fury. Behind them, more headlights. More bikes. The Alabama Chapter, rolling in like a goddamn army, their numbers swelling the assault force to something overwhelming, something unstoppable.

I recognized Rage first—his massive frame unmistakable even in the darkness, his bike cutting ahead of the pack as he led the charge. Payne rode beside him, lean and deadly, his expression carved from stone. Fury and Vicious flanked them, their movements synchronized, practiced, the kind of coordination that came from years of riding together, fighting together, bleeding together. These were my brothers. The men I’d stood beside in church, the men I’d trusted with my life, the men who’d drop everything and ride into hell if one of us called. And they’d come. All of them. Without hesitation. Without question.

The Alabama Chapter pulled in behind them, their bikes forming a semicircle around the ridge, engines cutting off in a wave of sudden, eerie silence. Grudge dismounted first—the Alabama Chapter president, a man in his late forties with a scar running from his temple to his jaw and eyes that had seen too much violence to ever be surprised by it again. Misery, his VP, followed, his expression grim and focused. Terror, the sergeant at arms, moved with the kind of controlled aggression that made even seasoned brothers step carefully around him. Agony and Vengeance, the chapter’s enforcers, flanked him, their hands already moving to check weapons, to prepare for what was coming. Behind them, more brothers—at least fifteen from Alabama alone, all armed, all ready, all carrying the same cold fury in their eyes.

Thirty men. Maybe more. All armed to the teeth. All ready to tear through the Death Dogs like a fucking hurricane. The sheer numbers were overwhelming, the firepower staggering. Rifles, shotguns, handguns, knives—every brother carried enough weaponry to start a small war. And that was exactly what this was. A war. Not just for Brandy. Not just for me. But for Malice. For the brother the Death Dogs had killed in Diamond Creek, the brother whose blood still stained the clubhouse floors, whose absence still echoed through every church meeting, every ride, every moment of silence. The Alabama Chapter had come for retribution. For vengeance. For the kind of justice that could only be paid in blood.

Grudge approached Hex and me, his boots crunching on the gravel, his expression unreadable in the darkness. “You must be Hex,” he said simply, his voice low and gravelly, carrying the weight of decades on the road. “Heard about you.”

Hex, his tone neutral but his eyes sharp, assessing, replied, “Thank you for coming.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Grudge said, then turned his attention to me. “You’re the one who got Hex’s daughter pregnant.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. A fact. And there was no judgment in it, no condemnation—just acknowledgment with a twitch of his lips. I nodded, my jaw tight, my hand still resting on the gun at my side. “Yeah.”

“Then let’s go get her,” Grudge said simply. He turned to address the assembled brothers, his voice rising to carry across the ridge. “Listen up. We’ve got a farmhouse full of Death Dogs holding a pregnant woman hostage. Our objective is simple: get her out alive, eliminate the threat, and make sure every single one of those fuckers understands what happens when you touch one of ours. Malice died because of these bastards. Tonight, we settle that debt.”