Page 61 of Sinner’s Torment

I’d faced down rival MCs in dimly lit bars where the tension was so thick you could have cut it with a knife. I’d stared down the barrel of a gun more times than I could count, felt that cold metal pressed against my temple while I kept my face blank and my breathing steady. I’d walked into rooms knowing I might not walk back out, accepting that possibility the way most people accept the sunrise. But this? This was different. This wasn’t about territory or respect or settling old scores. This was a father protecting his daughter, and there was nothing more dangerous than that. Nothing more primal, more unstoppable, more willing to burn the whole world down if that was what it took.

We stopped at the base of the porch steps, and for a long moment, no one spoke. The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating, heavy with unspoken threats and unasked questions, broken only by the distant sound of a dog barking somewhere down the road and the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze that had picked up since we’d arrived.

Then Hex spoke, his voice low and rough, like gravel grinding against steel, like a warning shot across the bow.

“Who the hell are you and what do you want?”

His eyes were locked on me, not Mercy. Just me. Like he already knew exactly who I was and what I’d done, and he was daring me to lie about it. Daring me to insult his intelligence by pretending this was anything other than what it was.

I glanced at Mercy, who gave me the slightest nod—barely perceptible, just a tiny dip of his chin that I almost missed.

This was my mess. My responsibility. My choice to be here, standing on this porch, facing down a man who could end me with a word.

I took a slow, steadying breath, filling my lungs completely before releasing it in a controlled exhale, and looked back at Hex. My pulse hammered in my ears, but I forced myself to meet his gaze without flinching.

“My name is Zander Dunaway,” I said, keeping my voice calm and respectful, measuring each word carefully. “I’m here to speak with your daughter, Brandy.”

Hex’s expression didn’t change. Didn’t soften. Didn’t harden. Didn’t so much as twitch. Just remained that same cold, unreadable mask carved from stone and shadow.

“Not going to ask again,” he said quietly, his voice dropping even lower—so low I had to strain to hear it, even though he stood only a few feet away. “Who the hell are you and what do you want?”

The question hung in the air like a blade, sharp and deadly. He wasn’t asking for my name. He was asking for the truth. The real reason I was here. What I wanted. What I was willing to risk. What I was prepared to lose. And in that moment, standing there under the weight of his unflinching stare, I understood with perfect, crystalline clarity.

Everything Mercy had told me about Hex—every story, every warning, every whispered legend shared in hushed tones over cheap beer and cigarettes—was true. Every single word. This man didn’t need to threaten. Didn’t need to yell or posture or make a show of his power. Didn’t need to raise his voice or clench his fists or reach for the weapon I was certain he carried.

He just was.

“I’m Torment,” I said, my voice steady despite the adrenaline flooding my system like a tidal wave. My hands remained at my sides, loose but ready. “An officer in the Soulless Sinners MC out of New York City.”

I let that hang in the air for a moment, watching his reaction, gauging whether the name meant anything to him. Whether he’d heard of us. Whether he gave a damn.

I gestured toward Mercy with a slight tilt of my head, keeping my eyes locked on Hex the entire time.

“This is my VP, Caleb Davenport. Also known as Mercy.”

Hex’s gaze flicked to Mercy for half a second, assessing him with the cold calculation of a predator sizing up potential prey, then returned to me with laser focus.

He took a step forward, descending one stair with slow, deliberate precision. Each movement was measured, controlled, designed to intimidate.

I stiffened, every muscle in my body coiling tight like a spring wound too far, my instincts screaming at me to move, to defend myself, to do something before this situation spiraled completely out of control.

But I didn’t.

I held my ground, planting my feet and squaring my shoulders, even as my heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to break free from my chest. Sweat prickled at the back of my neck despite the cool air.

“You the one who knocked up my baby girl?” Hex asked, his voice quiet but laced with something dark and dangerous. There was no yelling, no theatrics—just a calm, measured tone that somehow made it ten times more terrifying.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry as sandpaper. My heart was pounding so loud I could hear it in my ears. “Yes, sir,” I said, forcing myself to meet his gaze even though every instinct screamed at me to look away. “I am the father.”

For a moment, Hex just stared at me, his expression unreadable. His jaw was tight, his weathered face carved from stone. The air around me felt heavy and oppressive, making it harder to draw a full breath. Then he asked the question I should have seen coming but somehow didn’t.

“Do you love my daughter?”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. A sucker punch I never saw coming.

I opened my mouth to answer but nothing came out, because the truth was, I didn’t know. I cared about Brandy—God, did I care about her. I wanted her. I thought about her constantly, obsessively, to the point where it was driving me fucking insane. Every waking moment she was there in my head, her laugh, her smile, the way she looked at me like I was something worth believing in. But love? I didn’t know if I was capable of that anymore. Not after Elise. Not after everything I’d done and everything I’d lost. Love was a luxury for people who still had souls intact, and mine had been shattered into so many pieces I wasn’t sure all the parts were even still there.

The silence stretched between us, growing heavier and more oppressive with each passing second, and I saw the exact moment Hex’s patience snapped. His face didn’t change. His expression remained cold and controlled, that same stony mask he’d worn since I stepped out of the vehicle. But his eyes—Jesus Christ, his eyes went from cold to murderous in the span of a heartbeat. It was like watching a switch flip, and suddenly I understood why people feared this man.