Page 76 of Sinner’s Torment

I zipped the bag shut and stood there for a moment, staring at it, my chest heaving with shallow breaths that didn’t seem to bring enough oxygen. My mind was racing, spiraling, thoughts crashing into each other like waves against rocks.

He only said those things because you’re pregnant.

The thought was sharp, cutting, undeniable. It sliced through every moment of tenderness, every gentle touch, every word he’d spoken since he’d shown up on my parents’ doorstep. He’d come here because of the baby. He’d kissed me because of the baby. He’d fucked me against the wall because of the baby. Not because he wanted me. Not because I mattered. Because of the baby.

That was all I was to him. A means to an end. The woman carrying his child. The obligation he had to fulfill because that was what men like him did—they stepped up, they took responsibility, they did the right thing. Even when the right thing meant tying themselves to a woman who was so far beneath them it was laughable.

I grabbed the bag and slung it over my shoulder, the weight of it grounding me, reminding me that I was doing the right thing. The only thing. Because staying here, letting myself believe in the fantasy, would only make it worse when reality came crashing down. And it would. It always did.

I’m a club whore.

The words echoed in my head like a mantra, like a brand burned into my skin that I could never scrub away no matter how hard I tried. That was what I was. That was what I’d always be. No matter where I went, no matter what I did, no matter how much I wanted to be something else—I would always be a club whore. It was my identity now. My past, my present, my future. It was written in the ink on my shoulder, in the way men looked at me, in the way I looked at myself.

And club whores didn’t get happy endings. They didn’t get men like Torment. They didn’t get love or commitment or futures that involved anything other than warming beds and being passed around until they weren’t useful anymore.

That was the truth. The cold, brutal, undeniable truth.

And no club brother—ever—went against club rules for a club whore. It didn’t happen. It wasn’t done. The hierarchy was absolute, carved in stone, enforced by decades of tradition and violence. Officers had status. They had power. They had futures. Club whores were disposable. Interchangeable. Nothing.

I’d known that from the moment I’d walked into the Silver Shadows’ clubhouse five years ago. I’d known it every time I’d spread my legs for a brother who didn’t even bother to learn my name. I’d known it when I’d gotten that tattoo, when I’d accepted my place in the club, when I’d convinced myself that this was enough. That being wanted—even if it was only for my body—was better than being alone.

But somewhere along the way, I’d forgotten. I’d let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, I could be more. That Torment saw something in me that was worth keeping. That the way he looked at me, the way he touched me, the way he’d held my hand in that clinic—that it meant something.

God, I was so fucking stupid.

I could feel the tears burning behind my eyes, hot and insistent, but I refused to let them fall. I didn’t deserve to cry. I didn’t deserve to feel sorry for myself. This was my fault. All of it. I’d made the choices that led me here. I’d run away because I couldn’t handle the gossip, the judgment, the way everyone in Bethlehem looked at me like I was trash. I’d run away from a family that loved me because I was too proud, too stubborn, too convinced that I knew better. I’d ended up in a motorcycle club as a whore because I had nowhere else to go and no other skills to offer.

And now I was pregnant with a man’s baby—a man who was so far out of my league it was almost funny—and I was too much of a coward to even stay and face it.

I walked to the bedroom door, my hand hovering over the knob for just a moment. Downstairs, I could hear my mother moving around the kitchen, the sound of pots and pans clanging as she prepared lunch. Outside, in the barn, Torment and Mercy and my father were probably talking about club business. About me. About the baby. About all the ways this situation was a problem that needed to be solved. I couldn’t hear them from here, but I didn’t need to. I knew exactly what was happening—what mattered more, who ranked higher, where the priorities lay. And it wasn’t with me.

I turned the knob and slipped out into the hallway, moving as quietly as I could. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure someone would hear it, but no one came. No one stopped me. I made it to the stairs, down to the first floor, past the kitchen where my mother was humming softly to herself.

And then I saw them. The car keys. Hanging on the hook by the front door, right where my mother always left them.

I didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. I just grabbed them, the metal cold and solid in my palm, and walked out the front door.

The air outside was cool, crisp, carrying the scent of pine and earth. I could hear birds singing in the trees, the distant sound of a lawnmower somewhere down the road. Normal sounds. Peaceful sounds. The kind of sounds that belonged to a life I’d never have.

I threw my bag in the backseat of my mother’s car—a sensible sedan, the kind of car a normal person drove—and slid behind the wheel. My hands were still shaking as I put the key in the ignition, but the engine started smoothly, purring to life beneath my hands. I backed out of the driveway, my eyes flicking to the barn where I knew Torment was. Where he was probably still talking to Montana, still trying to figure out how to fix the mess I’d made of his life.

I pointed the car away from the house and drove.

I didn’t know where I was going. Didn’t have a destination in mind. I just knew I had to keep moving, had to put distance between myself and Connecticut, between myself and Torment, between myself and the fantasy I’d almost let myself believe in.

The road stretched out ahead of me, empty and endless, and I pressed down on the gas pedal, watching the speedometer climb. Forty. Fifty. Sixty. The trees blurred past the windows, the world outside becoming a smear of green and brown and gray.

And with every mile, the thoughts in my head grew louder, sharper, more vicious.

You’re worthless.

You’re nothing.

You’re a club whore, and that’s all you’ll ever be.

I gripped the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white, my jaw clenching so tight it ached. The tears I’d been holding back finally spilled over, hot and bitter, streaming down my cheeks and dripping off my chin. But I didn’t slow down. Didn’t pull over. I just kept driving, kept running, because that was what I did. That was what I was good at.

Running away.