Page 77 of Sinner’s Torment

I thought about all the ways I’d failed. All the mistakes I’d made. All the people I’d disappointed. My parents, who’d given me everything and gotten nothing in return. My brothers, who’d looked up to me once, before I’d become the family embarrassment. Torment, who’d shown up trying to do the right thing, and I’d repaid him by being exactly what everyone always said I was—trash.

I was doing this for him, I told myself. I was leaving so he didn’t have to deal with me. So he didn’t have to watch me drag him down, destroy his reputation, ruin his life. Because that was what I did. I destroyed things. I destroyed my relationship with my family by being wild and reckless. I destroyed my own future by being stupid and impulsive. I destroyed any chance at a normal life by joining a motorcycle club and letting myself become something I could never come back from.

And if I stayed, I’d destroy Torment too. I’d watch him realize, slowly but surely, that I wasn’t worth it. That the baby was the only thing that mattered, and once it was born, I’d be disposable again. Unnecessary. A burden he’d resent carrying.

Better to leave now. Better to spare him that. Better to spare myself the agony of watching it happen.

The road blurred in front of me, my vision swimming with tears I couldn’t stop. My chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped a band around my ribs and was pulling it tighter and tighter until I couldn’t breathe. But I kept driving. Kept moving. Because stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant feeling, and feeling meant breaking down completely.

And I couldn’t afford to break down. Not now. Not when I’d finally accepted the truth.

I was a club whore. That was all I was. That was all I’d ever be.

And maybe, eventually, I’d stop wanting more. Maybe I’d stop hoping for something I could never have. Maybe I’d accept my place in the world and stop fighting against it.

Maybe.

But as the miles stretched on and the distance grew, as Connecticut disappeared in my rearview mirror and the road ahead remained empty and endless, I couldn’t shake the small, stubborn voice in the back of my mind. The one that whispered that maybe I was wrong. That maybe Torment had meant it. That maybe I was worth more than I believed.

I crushed that voice. Buried it. Refused to let it take root.

Because hope was dangerous. Hope was the thing that destroyed you from the inside out. Hope was the lie you told yourself right before reality came crashing down and shattered you into pieces you could never put back together.

And I’d been shattered enough for one lifetime.

So I drove. And I didn’t look back.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Torment

The barn smelled of old wood and motor oil, the scent mixing with the faint trace of dust that hung in the air like memories suspended in time. The single bare bulb overhead cast harsh shadows across the space, turning everything into sharp angles and deep darkness. Hex stood near his motorcycle—that relic of his former life—his posture rigid, his expression unreadable. Mercy leaned against a workbench, arms crossed, his eyes tracking every movement Hex made with the kind of vigilance that came from years of assessing threats.

And I stood between them, Mercy’s phone in my hand, Montana’s voice crackling through the speaker.

“You still there, Hex?” Montana’s voice was rough, impatient, carrying the weight of a man who’d spent the last hour making calls to some of the most powerful men in the MC world.

“I’m here,” Hex replied, his voice flat, emotionless. He didn’t move closer to the phone. Didn’t show any interest in what Montana had to say. He just stood there, staring at his motorcycle like it held answers to questions no one had asked.

“Good,” Montana said. “Because I’ve got news. News that changes everything.”

I felt a flicker of hope ignite in my chest—small, fragile, but undeniable. I’d been in this barn long enough for Hex and Mercy’s argument to circle back on itself, while also listening to Montana try to convince a man who’d been burned by the MC world that there was still a way forward. And now, finally, Montana had something concrete. Something that might actually matter.

“I’ve been on the phone with Reaper,” Montana continued, his voice carrying the kind of authority that came with his position. “President of the Golden Skulls. And King—president of the Silver Shadows. And Morpheus—head of the Brotherhood of Bastards and current chair of the Biker Federation.”

Hex’s jaw tightened, the only visible reaction to the names Montana was dropping. These weren’t just club presidents. These were the men who controlled the entire MC landscape. The men who made the rules, enforced the laws, decided who lived and who died in this world.

“And?” Hex prompted, his voice still flat, still devoid of emotion.

“And they’ve agreed to lift your excommunication,” Montana said, the words landing like a bomb in the quiet barn.

I felt my breath catch, my heart stuttering in my chest. Lift the excommunication. That meant Hex would no longer be persona non grata. That meant the Federation rule forbidding his family from joining active clubs would no longer apply. That meant⁠—

“They’re willing to reinstate you,” Montana continued, his voice gaining momentum now, like he could sense the shift in the room. “Not as an active member—you made it clear you don’t want that. But they’ll lift the ban. They’ll remove the restriction. Which means Brandy is no longer forbidden from being claimed by an active club member.”

The hope in my chest flared brighter, hotter, threatening to consume me. This was it. This was the solution. This was the way forward. If the excommunication was lifted, if the Federation rule no longer applied, then I could claim Brandy. Openly. Officially. I could give her the protection of the Soulless Sinners, make her my old lady, ensure that she and the baby were safe from every threat in this world.

I could have her.