Page 58 of Sinner’s Torment

Because if I couldn’t trust myself to keep someone safe in a controlled scene, how could I trust myself with anything that mattered? How could I trust myself with real intimacy, real vulnerability, real connection? The answer was simple: I couldn’t.

How could I trust myself with Brandy?

She was pregnant with my child, and I still didn’t know if I was what she needed. What she wanted. The uncertainty gnawed at me day and night, keeping me awake in those quiet hours when I should have been resting beside her. I didn’t know if I could be the man she deserved—the kind of man who could protect her and provide for her and love her without the constant fear that I’d fuck it up somehow. The kind of man who didn’t second-guess every decision, every word, every touch.

And more than that, I was terrified of what she’d think if she ever learned the truth about my past. About Elise. About everything that happened that night and all the nights that followed. About the shame I carried like a second skin, a weight so heavy and so familiar that I’d almost forgotten what it felt like to stand up straight without it pressing down on my shoulders.

Would she look at me differently? Would the warmth in her eyes turn cold, replaced by fear or disgust or pity—I wasn’t sure which would be worse? Would she see me as dangerous? As someone who couldn’t be trusted? As damaged goods, too broken to be the father her child needed?

Would she run? Would she take our baby and disappear, deciding that whatever we had wasn’t worth the risk of staying with someone like me?

“You’re thinking too loud,” Mercy said from the driver’s seat, his voice cutting through my spiral like a knife through fog.

I blinked, pulling myself back to the present. We were on I-84 East, the highway stretching out ahead of us in a ribbon of asphalt and white lines that seemed to go on forever. Traffic was moderate—not the gridlock of rush hour, but enough cars that Mercy had to stay alert, weaving occasionally into the left lane to pass slower vehicles. The late morning sun slanted through the windshield at that perfect angle that made you squint even with the visor down, casting long shadows across the dashboard and turning the dust motes in the air into tiny floating stars.

We’d been driving for over an hour, maybe closer to an hour and a half, and I hadn’t said a word. Just stared out the window, watching the landscape change from urban sprawl to suburbs to something in between.

“Sorry,” I muttered, rubbing my face with both hands, feeling the rough stubble on my jaw. I needed a shave. Needed a lot of things, actually.

“Don’t apologize. Just talk to me.” Mercy glanced over at me, his expression unreadable behind his sunglasses—those expensive aviators he’d bought last summer and refused to replace even though one of the arms was slightly bent. “You’re wound tighter than a fucking spring, brother. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

I didn’t answer right away. Didn’t know how to put it into words that wouldn’t sound pathetic or desperate or like I was losing my grip on reality. The silence stretched between us, filled only by the hum of the engine and the occasional whoosh of a car passing us in the fast lane.

“I’m scared,” I said finally, the admission tasting bitter on my tongue. The words felt foreign coming out of my mouth, like I was speaking a language I’d forgotten how to use. Admitting fear wasn’t something I did often—wasn’t something I did ever, really.

“Of Hex?”

“Of everything.” I leaned my head back against the seat, staring up at the roof of the SUV, tracing the contours of the fabric with my eyes. The texture blurred as my vision lost focus. “Of seeing her. Of what she’ll say. Of the look in her eyes when she realizes what I’ve done. Of what happens next. Of what happens if there is no next.”

Mercy was quiet for a moment, his hands steady on the wheel as he navigated around a slow-moving truck. The silence stretched between us, not uncomfortable but weighted with understanding. He’d always been good at knowing when to push and when to let things breathe.

“You care about her,” he said eventually. Not a question. A statement of fact.

“Yeah.” The word came out rougher than I intended, scraped raw from somewhere deep in my chest.

“More than just club business.”

“Yeah.” There was no point in denying it. Not to Mercy. Not to myself anymore.

“Then you fight for her.” Mercy’s voice was firm, certain, carrying the kind of conviction that made you want to believe anything was possible. “You don’t run. You don’t hide behind excuses or fear or pride. You show up and you fight for what you want. That’s what brothers do. That’s what men do when they find something worth holding onto.”

I wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe it was that simple, that love and determination could overcome the mess I’d made.

But nothing about this situation was simple. Nothing ever was when it came to matters of the heart and the ghosts that haunted us both.

“There’s something you need to understand,” Mercy said after a long pause. His tone had shifted—less reassuring, more serious. The easy camaraderie we’d shared just moments before had evaporated, replaced by something heavier, more ominous. “About the Federation rule. About why it exists.”

I turned my head to look at him, studying his profile as he kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead. The muscles in his jaw were tight, his hands gripping the steering wheel with a tension that hadn’t been there before. “I know why it exists. To keep excommunicated brothers and their families out of active clubs.”

“Yeah, but do you know why that rule was created?” Mercy merged into the left lane, accelerating past a line of cars with practiced ease. The engine growled beneath us as we picked up speed. “It’s not just some arbitrary regulation, Torment. It wasn’t pulled out of thin air by some committee looking to flex their authority. It was created specifically because of Hex.”

I straightened in my seat, my full attention on him now. My pulse quickened. Every mention of Hex felt like pulling back layers of something I wasn’t sure I wanted to see but couldn’t look away from either.

“You remember what Shame said, that after Hex got out of prison,” Mercy continued, “he showed up at the Little Rock clubhouse and damn near killed Stone with his bare hands. No weapons. No backup. Just pure fucking rage. It took six brothers to pull him off, and even then, Stone spent two weeks in the hospital. Broken ribs, collapsed lung, fractured skull. The doctors said if they’d been thirty seconds later getting Hex off him, Stone would’ve died.”

I felt my stomach drop. “Yeah, I remember.”

“Three presidents witnessed the aftermath,” Mercy said. “William Doherty, George Stone, and Titan, Stone’s father. They sat down together and created the Federation rule specifically to prevent situations like that from ever happening again. Because they realized that excommunicated brothers are wildcards—they’re not bound by club law anymore, but they still have connections, still have family, still have reasons to come back. And when they do come back, it’s usually for blood.”