Page 65 of Sinner’s Torment

“Inside,” he said, his voice hard and commanding. “Now.”

He carried me up the porch steps, moving with a speed and urgency that made my heart race. I caught a glimpse of my father raising the shotgun, his eyes locked on something down the driveway. Then we were through the door, and Torment was setting me down, his hands on my shoulders, his body positioned between me and the windows.

“Stay down,” he ordered, his voice leaving no room for argument.

But I couldn’t. I had to see. I pushed past him, rushing to the window just in time to see a lone figure on a motorcycle speeding down our driveway, gravel spraying up behind the tires. And my father—my father was shooting.

The shotgun boomed once, twice, three times, the sound echoing across the property like thunder, reverberating through the valley and shaking the windows in their frames. The sharp crack of each blast sent birds scattering from the nearby trees, their wings beating frantically against the sky. The biker didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Didn’t even flinch. Just kept going, the motorcycle’s engine roaring defiantly as he disappeared around the bend in the road, leaving nothing but dust and the acrid smell of gunpowder hanging in the air. My father lowered the weapon slowly, his chest heaving with exertion and adrenaline, his knuckles white around the stock of the shotgun, his expression carved from stone and rage and something else—something that looked disturbingly like fear.

“Who was that?” I whispered, my voice barely audible, my hands pressed against the glass so hard my fingertips turned white, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might break through my ribs and escape my chest entirely.

Torment stood beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body, his jaw tight with tension, a muscle twitching beneath the skin, his eyes tracking the empty road where the biker had disappeared like he could somehow will the stranger back into view. “I don’t know,” he said quietly, his voice low and dangerous, edged with barely contained violence. “But whoever it was, they were watching the house. Watching for a while, from the looks of it.”

Watching the house.

The words sent ice water through my veins.

Why?

Why would anyone be watching my family’s home? What could they possibly want here?

And suddenly, the fight we’d been having—the hurt and anger and miscommunication that had driven a wedge between us just moments before—seemed insignificant compared to the cold, creeping fear that settled over me like a shroud, suffocating and heavy. Had someone followed me from Diamond Creek? Was this related to the war between the clubs, the violence that seemed to follow Torment and his brothers wherever they went? Did I somehow endanger my family by bringing this world to their doorstep? The questions multiplied in my mind, each one more terrifying than the last, until I could barely breathe under the weight of them.

And I had a terrible feeling that running away had just made everything so much worse.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Torment

The tension in the house didn’t dissipate after Hex lowered the shotgun and came back inside. If anything, it thickened, settling over all of us like fog rolling in off the coast. But Hannah—Brandy’s mother—refused to let it take root. She moved through the kitchen with practiced efficiency, pulling out ingredients, setting the table, her movements deliberate and calming. “You boys hungry?” she asked, not really waiting for an answer. “I’m making dinner. You’ll stay.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a command wrapped in maternal warmth, the kind that didn’t leave room for argument. Mercy glanced at me, one eyebrow raised in silent question. I nodded. We weren’t going anywhere. Not yet. Not until I understood what the hell was happening and who had been watching this house. Watching Brandy.

Dinner was a strange affair. The dining room table was large enough to accommodate all of us—Hex at the head, Hannah at the opposite end, Brandy’s siblings filling in the sides along with Brandy, Mercy, and me. There was a smaller table in the corner where Brandy’s nieces and nephews sat quietly, as if they felt the tension rippling off the adults.

The food was simple but good: roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, fresh bread. Comfort food. The kind of meal that spoke of family traditions and Sunday dinners and a life far removed from the violence and chaos of the MC world.

Duke, the oldest at thirty-two, sat directly across from me. He had his father’s build—broad shoulders, thick arms, the kind of frame that came from years of manual labor. He worked construction, I learned, managing crews for a company out of Waterbury. He watched me with the same intensity Hex did, but there was less hostility in it. More curiosity. Like he was trying to figure out what kind of man had gotten his sister pregnant and then shown up on their doorstep with a VP in tow.

Tracy, thirty years old and Brandy’s older sister, sat to Duke’s left. She was leaner than Brandy, with an easy smile and a quick wit that reminded me of Fury. She worked as an electrician, ran her own small business, and seemed to take nothing seriously—at least on the surface. But I could see the sharpness in her eyes, the way she tracked every movement Mercy and I made. She was assessing us, cataloging threats, just like her father. Her husband Michael sat quietly by her side.

Chris, the youngest at twenty-three, sat beside Brandy. He was still finding his footing in the world, working part-time at a local garage while taking classes at the community college. He had the kind of restless energy that came with being the baby of the family, always trying to prove himself, always looking for his place. He kept glancing at Brandy, concern written all over his face, like he wanted to ask her a thousand questions but didn’t know where to start.

“So,” Duke said after we’d been eating in relative silence for a few minutes, his voice breaking through the quiet like a stone dropped into still water. “Brandy never told us much about her time in Nebraska. What’s it like out there?”

I felt Brandy stiffen beside me, her fork pausing halfway to her mouth. She shot Duke a look that could have melted steel, but he just grinned at her, completely unbothered. “What?” he said innocently. “I’m just making conversation.”

“It’s different,” I said carefully, choosing my words with the same precision I used in therapy sessions when navigating sensitive topics. “Smaller towns. Wide open spaces. Not like Connecticut.”

“Brandy always hated small towns,” Tracy chimed in, her grin widening. “Remember when she was sixteen and swore she was moving to New York City the second she graduated? Said she was going to be a fashion designer or something.”

“I never said fashion designer,” Brandy muttered, her cheeks flushing pink. “I said I wanted to work in fashion. There’s a difference.”

“Oh, right,” Chris said, jumping in with the kind of enthusiasm only a younger brother could muster. “You wanted to be a buyer. For one of those fancy department stores. What was it you used to say? ‘I’m going to live in a penthouse and wear designer clothes and never come back to this boring town.’”

“I was sixteen,” Brandy said, her voice tight with embarrassment. “Everyone says stupid things when they’re sixteen.”

“You also said you were going to marry a millionaire,” Duke added, clearly enjoying himself now. “Remember that? You had this whole plan mapped out. Meet a rich guy, get married by twenty-five, have two kids and a dog, live in a mansion.”