Page 83 of Sinner’s Torment

Shaking my head, I muttered bitterly, “No. Brandy never met her. My mother and I... we don’t talk. Haven’t since I went to prison. She doesn’t even know she has grandchildren, much less one who’s pregnant and running for her life.”

“Then where would she go?” Torment asked immediately, his voice rising with barely contained frustration, clearly written on his face along with something that looked dangerously close to panic. His hands clenched into fists at his sides.

I studied him for a long moment, seeing past the colors to the man underneath. The man who loved my daughter with a fierceness that reminded me of myself when I was younger. The man who’d fight for her without hesitation. The man who’d burn the world down to keep her safe, consequences be damned.

Maybe—just maybe—he was worthy of her after all.

“Wait a minute,” Torment gasped, his eyes widening as the pieces started falling into place. “Brandy told me once that she was really close to Amber.”

“Massacre’s old lady?” Mercy questioned, his brow furrowing as the truth slowly dawned on him. He ran a hand through his hair, processing the connection. “Holy shit and they share the same background. Both were club whores, before the truth came out about them.” I growled low in my throat, a warning rumble that made Mercy pause mid-sentence. He held up his hands defensively as he quickly added, “Sorry, Hex, but there was no other way to state that. You know I meant no disrespect.”

“But Massacre and Amber are in California,” Torment challenged, his tone suggesting he wasn’t entirely confident in his assertion anymore.

Mercy shook his head, a dark chuckle escaping his lips. “No, they aren’t. Not anymore. Reaper got tired of Massacre’s bullshit and sent him to Cesar Vitale, who needed help with a personal matter concerning his brother, Guilio. Some family business that required muscle and discretion. Not that Massacre knows anything about discretion. Massacre and Amber are in Chicago, have been for the past two weeks.”

“Then we head to Chicago,” I stated firmly, my voice leaving no room for argument or debate. The decision was made, and nothing would change my mind. “And I’m going with you, because I have a score to settle. That motherfucker has been breathing my air for thirty-three years too long. It’s time to collect what’s owed.”

I handed the worn leather ledger to Hannah, the pages filled with secrets and sins that had been hidden for far too long. I kissed her forehead gently, savoring the warmth of her skin and the quiet strength she always gave me, then turned to climb onto my bike as Torment’s cellphone rang.

Answering it, Torment stiffened, his eyes immediately going to mine. He didn’t have to tell me. I already knew.

That motherfucker had my baby girl.

Starting my bike, the engine roared to life between my legs, the familiar vibration grounding me as years of the past settled heavy between my shoulders like an old leather cut. The weight of unfinished business pressed down on me, but I welcomed it. The time for hiding was over; the time for running had passed. Soon, Stone Ward would learn that some ghosts didn’t stay buried—they came back with a vengeance, and they remembered every single wrong that was done to them.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Brandy

The gas pump clicked off with a hollow thunk that seemed too loud in the quiet of the evening, the sound echoing in the empty space around me like a gunshot. I stood there with my hand still on the nozzle, staring at nothing in particular, my mind a thousand miles away even though my body was rooted to this spot just a few miles from the Connecticut border. The numbers on the pump display glowed an angry red: $47.32. I didn’t even blink.

I’d been driving for the last hour without stopping, without thinking, just moving. My back ached from sitting in the same position for too long, my eyes burned from staring at the endless white lines on the highway, and my bladder had been screaming at me for the last thirty miles. But I’d kept going, kept pushing forward, because that was what I did. I ran. It was my specialty, my default setting, the one thing I was really, truly good at. The one consistent thread that ran through my entire pathetic existence.

Running away from Diamond Creek when things got complicated with the club.

Running away from my family when I was eighteen because I couldn’t stand the disappointment that hung in the air every time they looked at me.

Running away from Torment because I was too scared to believe he actually wanted me—not just my body, but all of me, broken pieces and all.

I was so fucking tired of running. Tired of being the girl who always bolted when things got real, when emotions got messy, when people tried to get too close. But here I was again, doing the same damn thing.

The smell of gasoline hung heavy in the air, sharp and acrid, mixing with the scent of hot asphalt still radiating heat from the day and exhaust fumes from the highway nearby. A semi-truck rumbled past on the road behind me, its engine a low growl that vibrated through my chest and then faded into the distance, leaving only silence behind. The fluorescent lights of the gas station buzzed overhead like angry wasps, casting everything in a harsh, artificial glow that made the world feel unreal, disconnected. Like I was standing in a dream—or maybe a nightmare. One of those dreams where you were trying to run but your legs wouldn’t move, or you were screaming but no sound came out.

What the hell was I doing?

I had everything I’d ever wanted back in Bethlehem, everything I’d been searching for all these years. My parents, who loved me unconditionally despite everything I’d done, everything I’d become, every mistake I’d made along the way. My brothers and sister, who’d welcomed me home with open arms and embarrassing childhood stories that made me laugh until my sides hurt. My mother, who’d brushed my hair and tucked me into bed like I was still her little girl, like the last decade of pain and loss had never happened. My father, who’d held me while I cried ugly, broken sobs into his shoulder and told me he’d failed to protect me, when the truth was, I’d never needed protecting from him—I’d needed protecting from myself. From my own demons, my own self-destructive impulses, my own inability to accept love when it was offered.

And Torment.

God, Torment.

The man who’d shown up on my doorstep unannounced, who’d faced down my father without flinching even when Dad had gotten right up in his face with that cold, threatening stare that made most men back down. The man who’d kissed me in that doctor’s office like I was something precious, something worth protecting, his hands gentle on my face while his eyes burned with an intensity that made my knees weak. The man who’d fucked me against my bedroom wall with a desperation that told me everything his words couldn’t, his body saying what his mouth was too afraid to admit. The man who’d said my kid like it meant something, like he was claiming not just the baby but me too, even if he didn’t know how to say it out loud, even if vulnerability scared him as much as it scared me.

And I’d run. Again.

Like I always did when the stakes got too high, when the fear got too real, when I could see the finish line of something good and my brain told me to blow it all up first.

Because that was what I did when things got too real, too complicated, too close to what I actually wanted. When something threatened to be genuine instead of temporary. When someone looked at me like I mattered, like I was more than just a body to use and forget. I sabotaged myself before anyone else could do it for me. I destroyed the good things before they had a chance to destroy me. It was a pattern I’d perfected over the years, a defense mechanism I’d honed into an art form.