Page 84 of Sinner’s Torment

I thought about Amber.

The one person in Diamond Creek who’d understood what it was like to be a club whore, to be used and discarded and treated like you were nothing more than a warm body to pass the time, a convenient hole when the brothers needed relief. Amber had been there, had lived it, had survived it just like me. She knew what it was like to smile and pretend you didn’t care when they finished and walked away without a backward glance.

And now Amber was with Massacre.

Massacre, the sergeant at arms of the Golden Skulls. A man who was dangerous and deadly and had a reputation for violence that would make most people cross the street to avoid him. But he was also completely, utterly devoted to her in a way that would’ve seemed impossible just months ago. The last time I’d talked to Amber, she’d been laughing about how Massacre was trying to get her to marry him, how he kept bringing it up in that gruff, awkward way of his like he didn’t know how to be romantic but was trying anyway. She’d said she was fucking with him, making him work for it, not letting him think he had that much pull over her, keeping him on his toes because she liked watching him squirm. And his brother Player was apparently making Massacre’s life miserable about the whole thing, giving him endless shit and offering unsolicited advice, which Amber found absolutely hilarious.

But beneath the laughter and the teasing, I’d heard something else in her voice. Something soft and warm and real. Something I barely recognized because it was so foreign to our world.

Happiness.

Pure, genuine, unguarded happiness.

Amber—a former club whore, just like me—had found her happy ever after with Massacre. She’d let herself believe she deserved it, had stopped telling herself she was too damaged or too dirty or too broken. She’d stopped running from the good things and started fighting for what she wanted, even when it scared her, even when every instinct told her to protect herself by leaving first.

So why couldn’t I do the same?

What was the difference between Amber and me? We’d both been club whores. We’d both been used and passed around like we were nothing more than objects for their entertainment. We’d both been treated like we were disposable, like our feelings and our bodies and our hearts didn’t matter to anyone. But Amber had decided she was worth more than that. She’d made the choice to walk away from that life and claim something better for herself. She’d decided she deserved happiness, deserved love, deserved a man who would fight for her and protect her and treat her like she was precious. She’d decided her past didn’t have to dictate her future.

And I’d decided I didn’t. I’d decided I was broken beyond repair, that I was too damaged and too tainted to ever deserve anything good. I’d convinced myself that I was fundamentally unworthy of love.

The realization hit me like a physical blow, stealing the breath from my lungs and making my knees weak. My chest tightened painfully as the truth crashed over me in waves.

I was the only thing standing in my way. Not Torment. Not my family. Not the club or the rules or the Federation or any of the other bullshit I’d been using as excuses for years. Just me. My fear. My self-loathing. My inability to believe I deserved anything good. I’d been my own jailer this entire time, keeping myself locked in a prison of shame and regret.

But I did deserve it. God, I did.

I deserved to be loved. I deserved to be happy. I deserved to wake up every morning feeling safe and cherished. I deserved a man who would show up on my doorstep and face down my terrifying father and kiss me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered to him. I deserved a family who would welcome me home with open arms and embarrassing stories and unconditional love, no matter what I’d done or where I’d been.

Being a club whore didn’t define my entire existence. It was something I’d done, something I’d survived, something I’d endured when I thought I had no other options. But it wasn’t who I was. Not all of me. Not the parts that mattered. Not my capacity for love or loyalty or hope or resilience.

I was done running.

I pulled the nozzle from the tank and replaced it in the pump with shaking hands. The metallic click as it settled back into place felt final, decisive. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat, adrenaline flooding my system like I was preparing for battle. My whole body was trembling, every nerve ending alive and electric. In a way, I was preparing for battle. I was going to fight for this. For Torment. For my family. For the messy, imperfect, beautiful life I wanted instead of the safe, empty life I thought I deserved.

I was going back to Bethlehem.

I was going to tell Torment I was wrong, that I was scared, that I panicked and ran like I always did when things got too real. I was going to tell him I wanted him and our baby and whatever messy, complicated, uncertain future we could build together. I was going to tell my parents I loved them, that I was sorry for running away again, that I was tired of being the daughter who disappeared when things got hard. I was ready to stop hiding behind my fear, behind my past, behind all the excuses I’d made for why I couldn’t have the things I wanted most. I was going to accept that I deserved happiness, that I deserved to be loved without conditions, that my past mistakes and trauma didn’t have to dictate every choice I made for the rest of my life.

The relief that washed over me was almost overwhelming, nearly bringing me to my knees right there in the gas station parking lot. Like a weight I’d been carrying for years—maybe my whole life—had suddenly lifted, leaving me lighter, freer, able to stand up straight and breathe deeply for the first time in forever. I could finally see a future that didn’t terrify me.

I practically ran into the gas station to pay, my hands fumbling with my wallet as I shoved cash at the bored teenager behind the counter. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a harsh, sterile glow that made my eyes water. He barely looked up from his phone—just took my money with one hand while scrolling with the other and waved me away with a dismissive flick of his wrist. I didn’t care. I didn’t have the energy to be annoyed by his apathy. I was too focused on getting back on the road, getting back to Bethlehem, getting back to Torment.

The evening air was cool against my flushed skin as I stepped back outside, a welcome relief from the stale air-conditioning inside. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink and purple, streaks of color bleeding across the horizon like watercolors on wet paper. It was beautiful. Everything felt beautiful suddenly, like the world had shifted into sharper focus now that I’d made my decision. Like I was finally seeing clearly for the first time in weeks.

I was halfway to my mother’s car, keys already in my hand, when I heard it.

The sound of a motorcycle engine. Low and menacing and deliberate, the kind of sound that made your stomach drop and your instincts scream danger. Not the distant rumble of traffic on the highway, but close. Right here. In the gas station parking lot. Coming closer.

My steps faltered, my heart suddenly pounding for an entirely different reason. The keys slipped in my sweaty palm.

The bike pulled up alongside my mother’s car, blocking my path completely. The engine idled with a predatory growl, vibrating through the asphalt beneath my feet, and I watched, frozen, as the rider reached up and removed his helmet.

Slowly. Deliberately. Like he had all the time in the world. Like he knew exactly what kind of fear he was inspiring.

The face that emerged made my blood run cold. Sharp features. Dark eyes that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. A scar running down his left cheek. He smiled, and it was the most terrifying thing I’d ever seen—all teeth and malice and cruel amusement.

“Hello, Brandy,” he said, his voice smooth and cold and utterly devoid of warmth. Like ice sliding down my spine. “Long time no see.”