Page 30 of Sinner’s Torment

King leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight, his expression softening slightly, genuine sympathy in his dark eyes. “I understand that, Brandy. I really do. Trust me, I get it. But my options are limited because of who the father is, because of club politics and alliances and obligations. This isn’t just about you anymore. As much as I wish it was that simple, it’s not. It’s about the baby. It’s about the alliance between the Silver Shadows and the Soulless Sinners, an alliance that’s kept both clubs safe, that’s built on trust and mutual respect. It’s about keeping you safe, keeping that baby safe, honoring the agreements we’ve made.”

“But—”

“I won’t force you to go,” King said, cutting me off gently but firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument even as he gave me a choice. “If you truly want to stay here, if that’s what you decide after really thinking it through, I’ll respect that decision. It’s your life, your choice, your body. But you need to understand what that means. Really understand, not just hear the words but comprehend the reality. You’ll be here, in Diamond Creek, without the father of your child. Without the direct protection of his club, without the resources and manpower they can provide. And if something happens—if the Death Dogs come back, if things escalate in this war, if you become a target and someone decides you’re worth taking to get to Torment or Montana or the Soulless Sinners—I can’t guarantee your safety. I wish I could, but I can’t. The Soulless Sinners have bigger enemies than we do. We’ll do our best, but I can’t make promises I might not be able to keep.”

I stared at him, my mind racing frantically, thoughts colliding and scattering like marbles spilled across a floor, rolling in every direction, impossible to gather back together.

He was right.

Deep down, in the part of me that understood how the MC world worked, that had been around these men and their codes and their wars, I knew he was right.

But the thought of leaving Diamond Creek, of going all the way to New York, of facing Torment after all this time, after almost two months of silence where I’d heard nothing from him, not a call or a text or any acknowledgment that our night together had meant anything at all—it absolutely terrified me in a way that made my chest tight and my breathing shallow.

King reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a small sheet of paper, folded once. He slid it carefully across the polished wood toward me, the sound of paper on wood unnaturally loud in the tense silence.

“Torment has asked you to call him,” he said quietly, watching my reaction with careful eyes.

I looked down at the paper with wide eyes, like it might bite me or burst into flames if I touched it.

A phone number was written in neat, precise handwriting that I didn’t recognize—probably Grace’s.

Torment’s number.

His personal number.

A direct line to the man who’d changed everything with one night, one incredible night that I’d replayed in my mind a thousand times.

My hands shook as I picked it up, the paper crinkling loudly between my trembling fingers, the sound seeming to fill the entire room.

“He wants to talk to you,” King continued, his voice gentle now, almost sympathetic. “About the baby. About what comes next. About your options and what kind of support you’ll have. He’s not trying to force you into anything, Brandy. He was very clear about that when Bane spoke to him. But he wants to be involved. He wants to help. He wants to do right by you and the baby. Whatever that looks like, whatever you need.”

I looked up at Grace, my vision blurring with unshed tears that threatened to spill over, turning her kind face into a watercolor painting of warm colors and soft edges.

She gave me a small, encouraging nod, her eyes full of understanding and compassion that made my throat tighten even more. “It’s your choice, honey. Whatever you decide, whatever you want to do, we’ll support you. Every step of the way. I promise you that.”

I looked back down at the paper in my hands, the numbers swimming before my eyes, blurring and refocusing as tears gathered and fell, spotting the paper with tiny dark circles.

Torment’s number.

The father of my baby.

The man I hadn’t heard from in almost two long months that had felt like an eternity.

The man who’d spent one last incredible night with me before heading back to New York, fucked me like it meant something real and important and precious, made me feel things I’d never felt before—desired and cherished and seen in a way that had nothing to do with just physical pleasure—and then disappeared without a word, without a text, without any indication that I’d been more than a pleasant way to spend an evening.

And now he wanted to talk.

Now he wanted to be involved.

Now he cared.

Now, when there were consequences, when there was a baby, when ignoring me wasn’t an option anymore.

I didn’t know what to feel about any of it.

Relief? Anger? Fear? Hope? Resentment? Gratitude?

All of it, maybe. Everything at once, overwhelming and confusing and contradictory, a tangle of emotions I couldn’t begin to sort through.