Page 96 of Sinner’s Torment

I didn’t remember much about the ride back to my parents’ house. Just fragments—Torment’s arms around me in the back of someone’s SUV, his hand stroking my hair, his voice murmuring words I couldn’t quite process. My father wanted me taken to the hospital, but hospitals meant questions none of us wanted to answer. Torment had checked the worst of my injuries before we left. My ribs were likely bruised, not broken, and there was nothing anyone could do for the baby. We would have to wait and see. The world felt distant, muffled, like I was underwater and everything was happening somewhere far above me.

But when we pulled into the driveway and I saw my mother standing on the porch, her hands pressed to her mouth, tears streaming down her face—that was when reality crashed back in. That was when I realized I was alive. I was safe. I was home.

Torment carried me out of the vehicle and up the porch steps. My father stood beside my mother, his face carved from stone, his eyes red-rimmed but dry. He met Torment’s gaze and nodded once—a gesture of gratitude, of respect, of understanding. My mother reached for me, her hands trembling, but my father gently pulled her back.

“Give them space, Hannah,” he said quietly.

Torment carried me through the front door and up the stairs to my bedroom. My family stayed downstairs, their voices low and concerned, but they didn’t follow. They understood. This moment—this reunion—belonged to us alone.

He set me down gently on the edge of my bed, his hands moving over me with careful precision, checking my injuries again. His fingers ghosted over the bruises on my arms, the swelling on my face, the split in my lip. His jaw clenched tighter with each mark he found, his eyes darkening with barely controlled rage.

“I’m okay,” I whispered, my voice hoarse and broken. “I’m okay, Torment. I promise.”

But I wasn’t okay. Not really. The adrenaline that had kept me functioning, kept me surviving, was draining away, leaving nothing but raw terror and overwhelming relief in its wake. My hands started shaking. Then my arms. Then my entire body.

I couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t control it. The shaking turned into trembling, and the trembling turned into violent shudders that wracked my entire frame. A sob tore from my throat—harsh and ugly and desperate—and suddenly I was crying. Not the quiet, dignified tears I’d shed in captivity, but gut-wrenching, body-shaking sobs that felt like they were being ripped from somewhere deep inside me.

I grabbed onto Torment’s jacket, my fingers twisting in the leather, pulling him closer. I needed him. Needed his solidity, his strength, his presence. Needed to know he was real, that this was real, that I wasn’t still trapped in that farmhouse with Stone’s hands on me and his voice in my ear.

“Torment,” I gasped between sobs. “Torment. Torment. Torment.”

His name became a mantra, a prayer, a lifeline. I couldn’t stop saying it. Couldn’t stop clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping me tethered to reality.

His arms came around me immediately, pulling me against his chest with a desperation that matched my own. One hand buried itself in my hair, cradling the back of my head, while the other wrapped around my waist, holding me so tightly I could barely breathe. But I didn’t care. I needed this. Needed him.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured against my temple, his lips pressing kisses to my skin between words. “I’ve got you, baby. You’re safe. You’re home. I’ve got you.”

His voice was rough, broken, raw with emotion I’d never heard from him before. His body was trembling too, I realized. Not as violently as mine, but enough that I could feel it. The realization that he’d been just as terrified, just as desperate, just as close to breaking as I had been—it undid something inside me.

“I almost lost you,” he said, his voice cracking on the words. “Fuck, Brandy. I almost lost you.”

I pulled back just enough to look at him, my hands moving from his jacket to his face, cupping his jaw, feeling the rough stubble beneath my palms. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face pale, his expression more vulnerable than I’d ever seen it. This man—this controlled, composed, unshakeable man—looked like he’d been shattered and barely put back together.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “God, Torment, I’m so sorry for running.”

“Brandy—”

“No, let me say this. Please.” I took a shuddering breath, forcing the words out even though they hurt. “I was so scared. Not of you. Never of you. But of not being enough. Of being just... just a club whore to you. Of you only wanting me because of the baby, because of obligation, because of some sense of duty.”

His hands tightened on me, his eyes darkening with something that looked like pain.

“But then Stone had me,” I continued, the words tumbling out faster now, desperate and raw. “And I realized... I realized I didn’t want to die without telling you the truth. Without you knowing how I really felt. Because if I died and you never knew—if you spent the rest of your life thinking I ran because I didn’t want you—I couldn’t bear it.”

I pressed my forehead against his, my eyes closing, tears still streaming down my face.

“I love you,” I whispered. “I love you so much it terrifies me. I love you so much I don’t know what to do with it. I love you, Torment. I love you.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just held me, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps against my skin. And then his hands were cupping my face, tilting my head back, forcing me to look at him.

His eyes were intense, burning with an emotion so raw and powerful it stole my breath.

“You were never just a club whore,” he said, his voice low and fierce. “Not to me. Not ever. From the first moment I saw you, you were different. You were mine. I just didn’t know how to tell you. Didn’t know how to make you believe it.”

His thumbs brushed away my tears, his touch impossibly gentle despite the intensity in his eyes.

“You’re mine, Brandy,” he continued, each word deliberate and weighted. “You’re my woman. You’re the mother of my child. You’re the first person I think about when I wake up and the last person I think about before I fall asleep. You’re the reason I drove to Connecticut. The reason I stood on your father’s porch and let him throw me against the wall. The reason I went to war to get you back.”

His voice cracked, and I saw the shimmer of tears in his eyes.