Page 33 of Sinner’s Torment

I was supposed to fly to New York and put myself and my unborn child directly in the line of fire? I was supposed to walk into a war zone with a target on my back, and just hope that everything would work out fine?

No.

No, I couldn’t do that.

I couldn’t call him.

I couldn’t go to New York.

I couldn’t be part of this anymore. Not with a baby growing inside me. Not when every decision I made now affected someone other than myself.

The decision solidified in my chest like concrete, heavy and immovable. Painful, even. Because part of me—a stupid, reckless part of me—wanted to go to him. Wanted to fall into his arms and let him tell me everything would be okay. Wanted to believe that love could somehow conquer the violence and chaos that surrounded his life.

But I wasn’t that naïve anymore.

I had to leave.

I had to go somewhere safe. Somewhere far away from the war and the club and the life I’d built here. Somewhere I could figure out what the hell I was going to do next without everyone watching, without everyone having an opinion, without King and Grace and the old ladies making decisions for me. Without well-meaning bikers offering unsolicited advice about motherhood and relationships. Without the constant reminder that the man I loved lived a life that could get me—and now our baby—killed.

I needed to go home.

Even if home was the last place I wanted to be. Even if going back meant facing the disappointment of my mother and father. Even if it meant admitting that I’d failed, that I’d made yet another mistake, that I’d gotten myself into another situation I couldn’t handle. Even if it meant swallowing my pride and asking for help from the people I’d spent years trying to prove wrong.

Home was safe. Home was boring. Home was suffocating.

But home wouldn’t get my baby killed.

I packed in the dead of night, moving as quietly as I could through the darkened clubhouse. Every creak of the floorboards beneath my feet sounded like a gunshot in the silence. I froze at each one, holding my breath, waiting to see if anyone would come investigating. But no one did.

My hands shook as I threw clothes into a duffel bag—jeans, T-shirts, a few sweaters, underwear, socks. The fabric felt rough against my trembling fingers as I stuffed each item in without bothering to fold anything. There wasn’t time for that. I didn’t have much. I’d never had much. Everything I owned fit into one bag with room to spare. A lifetime of belonging to nothing and no one, all condensed into a single worn canvas bag that had seen better days.

I grabbed my toothbrush from the bathroom, my phone charger, the small stash of cash I kept hidden in my dresser drawer, tucked beneath a pile of mismatched socks that no one ever bothered to look through. Three hundred and forty-seven dollars. That was it. That was all I had to my name after years of scraping by, of surviving rather than living.

It would have to be enough. It had to be.

I zipped the bag closed, the sound of the zipper teeth catching seeming impossibly loud in the stillness. I slung it over my shoulder, feeling the weight of my entire life pressing against my back, and crept down the hallway toward the back door. Each step felt like it took an eternity. My legs felt like jelly, weak and unsteady beneath me.

The clubhouse was quiet. Most of the brothers were either asleep in their rooms upstairs or out on patrol, riding through the night on their bikes. A few lights were on in the common room, casting a yellow glow that spilled into the hallway. I could hear the low murmur of voices, maybe two or three guys still up, probably drinking and playing cards like they did most nights. But I avoided that area entirely, sticking to the shadows along the opposite wall, pressing myself against the cool plaster, praying no one would see me. Praying no one would ask questions I couldn’t answer.

My heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst through my ribs. I could feel it hammering against my chest wall, could hear the rush of blood in my ears like a roaring ocean.

I made it to the back door, reached for the handle with a shaking hand, eased it open as slowly as I could manage, and slipped outside into the cool night air. The temperature drop hit me immediately, raising goosebumps on my arms.

The parking lot was dimly lit, just a few overhead lights casting long shadows across the gravel and cracked asphalt. My car—a beat-up Honda Civic that was more rust than paint, with a dent in the passenger door and a crack spider-webbing across the windshield—sat in the far corner where I’d left it weeks ago. I hadn’t driven it in so long I wasn’t even sure it would start.

I hurried toward it, my footsteps crunching on the gravel, each sound making me wince. My breath came in short, panicked gasps that created little clouds in the cold air.

Almost there. Almost free. Just a few more steps.

I was reaching for the door handle, my fingers inches from the cold metal, when a hand closed around my arm like a vise.

I gasped, spinning around, my heart leaping into my throat.

Tiffany stood there—with me gone, she was the only club girl left. Her face serious and concerned. Her expression was unreadable in the dim light, shadows playing across her features and making her look older than her twenty-six years.

“Where are you going?” she asked, her voice low and careful, barely above a whisper. She glanced back toward the clubhouse, as if checking to make sure no one else was around to hear us.

I swallowed hard, my mind racing through possible excuses, possible explanations that wouldn’t raise too much suspicion. “I-I’m just going to stay with a friend for a few days. I need some space. Some time to think. Away from here. Away from... everything.”