Page 79 of Sinner’s Torment

And I felt the ground drop out from under me.

Gone.

Brandy was gone.

She’d packed a bag. She’d taken Hannah’s car. She’d left. While I was down here in the barn, while I was dealing with club business, while I was trying to navigate Federation politics and institutional corruption and all the shit that came with this life—she’d left.

I’d made my choice. And she’d made hers.

“Torment—” Mercy started, but I was already moving, already pushing past Hannah, already running toward the house.

Because I’d fucked up. Again. Just like I always did. I’d chosen the club over her. I’d chosen politics over the woman carrying my child. I’d left her alone in that bedroom, raw and vulnerable and convinced she didn’t matter, and I’d walked away to deal with club business.

And now she was gone.

The realization hit me like a freight train, crushing the air from my lungs, making my chest tighten until I thought my ribs might crack. I’d had her. For one perfect moment in that bedroom, I’d had her. She’d been in my arms, her body wrapped around mine, her breath hot against my neck. And I’d felt something I hadn’t felt in years—something that looked almost like hope.

And then I’d walked away.

I burst through the front door of the house, taking the stairs two at a time, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. The sound of my boots echoed through the empty hallway as I climbed higher, each step feeling heavier than the last. Her bedroom door was open, the room empty. The silence hit me like a physical blow, suffocating and absolute.

But she was gone. Her bag was gone. Her clothes were gone. The closet door hung open, revealing empty hangers swaying slightly, as if mocking me with their emptiness.

She was gone.

I stood in the doorway, staring at the empty room, my hand gripping the doorframe so tight my knuckles turned white, and felt something inside me shatter. It was like a piece of glass breaking in my chest, sharp and painful and irreversible. Because I’d done this. I’d driven her away with my stubborn pride and my misplaced priorities. I’d made her believe she didn’t matter, that the club came first, that she was just an obligation I had to fulfill, another responsibility on my endless list of duties. I’d let her think she was second place when she should have been everything.

And now I’d lost her. Possibly forever.

Behind me, I heard footsteps on the stairs. Mercy appeared in the doorway, his expression grim. “Torment⁠—”

“Find her,” I said, my voice raw, barely recognizable. “I don’t care what it takes. I don’t care who you have to call or what strings you have to pull. Find her.”

Mercy nodded once, already pulling out his phone. “I’ll get Shame on it. We’ll track the car. We’ll find her.”

But as I stood there in Brandy’s empty bedroom, staring at the space where she’d been just an hour ago, I couldn’t shake the terrible certainty that settled over me like a shroud.

I’d made my choice.

And it had cost me everything.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Torment

We were halfway down the stairs when I heard it—the low rumble of motorcycle engines approaching from the distance. Not the high-pitched whine of sport bikes or the throaty roar of modern cruisers, but the deep, unmistakable growl of old-school Harleys. The kind of sound that carried weight and history and decades of road miles. The kind of sound that made every instinct I had snap to attention.

Mercy heard it too. His hand moved to his waistband before he’d even consciously processed the threat, fingers wrapping around the grip of his gun with the kind of muscle memory that came from years of living in a world where hesitation meant death. I mirrored the movement, my own weapon suddenly heavy and reassuring against my palm, and we both froze on the landing, listening.

The engines grew louder, closer, more distinct. Two bikes. Maybe three. Riding deliberately, not hurried but purposeful, like men who knew exactly where they were going and had no intention of being stopped. The sound cut through the quiet Connecticut afternoon like a knife, shattering whatever fragile peace had existed in the Griffin household.

“Expecting company?” Mercy asked quietly, his voice barely above a murmur, his eyes already tracking toward the front of the house.

“No,” I said, though even as the word left my mouth, I knew it was a stupid question. Of course we weren’t expecting company. We were in the middle of nowhere, at the home of an excommunicated MC brother who’d spent thirty years staying off everyone’s radar. The only people who would ride up to this house unannounced were people who had business with Hex. And that business was never good.

Before either of us could move, Hex appeared from somewhere deeper in the house—the kitchen, maybe, or the back hallway—moving with the kind of speed and purpose that belied his age. He had his shotgun in his hands, the same weapon he’d used to chase off the mystery rider in the driveway, and his expression was set in hard, unreadable lines. But there was something else there too. Something I couldn’t quite identify. Not fear, exactly. Not anger. Something closer to... resignation. Like he’d been waiting for this moment and had finally run out of time to prepare.

He walked past us without a word, without even acknowledging our presence, and headed straight for the front door. His boots hit the hardwood floor with heavy, deliberate thuds, each step carrying the weight of a man walking toward something inevitable. Something he couldn’t avoid no matter how much he might want to.