Page 93 of Sinner’s Torment

The second thing I saw was Stone Ward.

My nephew. Titan’s only living son. The last remnant of the man who’d murdered my father and stolen everything that should have been mine. He stood behind Brandy with a gun pressed to her temple, his face twisted into a sneer that was so much like his father’s it made my blood run cold. The resemblance was uncanny—the same cruel mouth, the same dead eyes, the same arrogance that came from believing the world owed you something just because of who your father was.

“Cousin,” Stone said, his voice dripping with mock affection. “So good of you to finally show up. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about your little girl.”

I didn’t respond. Didn’t move. I just stood there in the doorway, my shotgun lowered but ready, my eyes locked on his. Behind me, I could feel Torment’s presence—the younger man’s rage barely contained, his breathing harsh and ragged. I held up one hand, a silent command to wait. To hold position. To let me handle this.

Because this was mine. This moment. This reckoning. It had been building for thirty-three years, and I’d be damned if anyone else took it from me.

“You know,” Stone continued, pressing the gun harder against Brandy’s temple until she whimpered. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time. Ever since you damn near killed me.”

Brandy’s eyes met mine, and I saw the question there. The confusion. She didn’t understand what he was talking about. Didn’t know that I’d beaten Stone within an inch of his life all those years ago, that I’d left him broken and bleeding on the clubhouse floor while his brothers watched. That I’d walked away from the Silver Shadows with blood on my hands and murder in my heart.

But she would understand soon enough.

“Let her go,” I said quietly, my voice carrying across the room with the weight of absolute certainty. “This is between you and me, Stone. Always has been. She’s got nothing to do with it.”

“Nothing to do with it?” Stone laughed, the sound harsh and bitter. “She’s got everything to do with it. She’s your daughter. Your blood. The one thing in this world you actually give a shit about. And now she’s mine. Just like everything else should have been mine.”

I saw it then—the moment Brandy made her decision. Her eyes hardened, her jaw set, and her body shifted slightly, preparing. She’d been a club whore for five years. She’d learned how to survive in a world of violent men. She’d learned how to fight back when fighting back was the only option left.

And she was my daughter. Which meant she had my blood running through her veins. My instincts. My refusal to go down without a fight.

Stone was still talking, still ranting about injustice and betrayal and all the ways I’d ruined his life, when Brandy drove her fist backward into his dick with brutal precision. The kind of precision that came from practice, from necessity, from knowing exactly where to hit to make a man drop.

Stone’s eyes went wide, his mouth opening in a soundless gasp of agony. The gun wavered, his grip loosening as his body doubled over instinctively, trying to protect itself from the pain radiating through his core. Brandy twisted away from him, stumbling forward, her hands still wrapped around her stomach.

And then Torment was there.

He burst through the doorway behind me like a man possessed, his eyes wild, his face a mask of barely controlled violence. He took in the scene in a single glance—Brandy free, Stone doubled over, the gun falling from his hand and clattering to the floor—and moved without hesitation. He crossed the room in three long strides, caught Brandy as she stumbled, and pulled her against his chest with a desperation that was almost painful to witness.

“I’ve got you,” he was saying, his voice rough and broken. “I’ve got you, baby. You’re safe. You’re safe now.”

Brandy was crying, her face buried against his chest, her body shaking with sobs that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside her. Torment looked at me over her head, his eyes asking a silent question. I nodded toward the door.

“Get her the fuck out of here,” I said simply. “Now!”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t hesitate. He just scooped Brandy up into his arms like she weighed nothing and moved toward the exit, his body positioned to shield her from any threat. As he passed me, Brandy reached out, her hand catching mine for just a moment. Her fingers squeezed, a silent thank you, a silent I love you, a silent goodbye to the violence she knew was about to happen.

And then they were gone, disappearing down the hallway, leaving me alone with Stone.

Well. Not entirely alone.

Mercy appeared in the doorway, his gun drawn, his expression grim. Behind him, I could see Smokey and Dutch, their faces hard and weathered, their eyes knowing. They understood what was about to happen. They’d been there when I’d beaten the shit out of Stone the first time. They’d been there when I’d walked away from the club. They’d been there through all of it.

And they were here now. Witnesses. Brothers. The only family I’d ever really had besides Hannah and my kids.

“This piece of shit is mine,” I said, my voice carrying the weight of thirty-three years of rage and pain and loss.

Mercy nodded slowly, then stepped back, positioning himself in the doorway. Not leaving. Not interfering. Just... watching. Making sure no one else interrupted what needed to happen.

Stone straightened slowly, his face etched with pain and fury. His hand moved toward his waistband, reaching for another weapon, but I was faster. I crossed the distance between us in two steps and drove my fist into his face with enough force to snap his head back. The impact sent a jolt of satisfaction through me, the kind of visceral pleasure that came from finally—finally—being able to hit back at the people who’d taken everything from me.

Stone staggered backward, blood exploding from his nose, his eyes watering. He tried to raise his hands to defend himself, but I was already moving, already striking again. My fist connected with his ribs—once, twice, three times—each blow landing with a meaty thud that echoed through the room. I felt something crack under my knuckles, felt the give of bone breaking, and the satisfaction deepened.

“You want to blame me?” I said, my voice cold and flat as I drove another punch into his gut, doubling him over. “You want to make this my fault? Fine. Let’s talk about fault, Carrington. Let’s talk about your father.”

I grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head up, forcing him to look at me. His face was already swelling, blood streaming from his nose and mouth, his eyes glazed with pain. But he was still conscious. Still aware. Still able to hear every word I was about to say.