Page 99 of Sinner’s Torment

The words hung in the air between us, heavy with meaning and promise. A claiming wasn’t just words in this world—it was everything. It was protection, commitment, loyalty. It was telling every other man to back the hell off because I belonged to someone. To him.

I tilted my head back to look at him, my eyes searching his face for any hint of doubt or hesitation. But there was none. Just pure, unwavering certainty staring back at me. The kind of certainty I’d spent my whole life looking for and never finding.

“Mine,” I whispered, accepting. Believing. Finally understanding that I was worthy of this. Worthy of him. Worthy of love. Worthy of being chosen, protected, cherished. The walls I’d built around my heart—brick by brick, scar by scar—crumbled in that moment.

“Mine,” he confirmed, his voice dropping even lower, more possessive. His lips found mine in a kiss that sealed everything we’d just shared. Everything we’d just promised. Everything we were going to be. The kiss was deep and slow and devastating, stealing my breath and my doubts all at once.

The weight of the claim settled over me—not heavy or suffocating but comforting. Right. Like coming home after being lost for so long. Like finding the missing piece of myself I didn’t even know I’d been searching for.

I was his. He was mine. And nothing—not the club, not the past, not the fear or the doubt or the insecurity that had haunted me for years—was ever going to change that. Nothing could touch what we had now.

We were forever.

And for the first time in my life, I believed it. I believed in us. I believed in him. Most importantly, I believed in myself.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Brandy

I woke to sunlight streaming through my childhood bedroom window, the kind of soft golden light that only existed in early morning. My body ached—a deep, satisfying soreness that reminded me of everything Torment and I had shared the night before. Every muscle felt used, claimed, thoroughly loved.

The bed beside me was empty, the sheets cool to the touch. Torment was gone.

I sat up slowly, wincing slightly at the pull in my thighs, and found a note on the pillow where his head had been. His handwriting was surprisingly neat, precise—the handwriting of someone who’d spent years writing clinical notes and therapy reports.

Didn’t want to wake you. Montana called—club business. Your dad’s in the barn. I’ll be back soon. T

I smiled despite myself, folding the note carefully and setting it on my nightstand. Club business. The words that used to fill me with dread, now just felt like... life. Reality. The world Torment lived in; the world I was choosing to be part of.

The world my father had once lived in too.

I got out of bed carefully, my body protesting the movement, and pulled on a pair of sweatpants and one of my old high school hoodies. The bruises Stone left were still visible on my arms and ribs—ugly purple and blue marks that would take weeks to fade. But they were just marks. Just evidence of survival. They didn’t define me.

Nothing defined me except the choices I made going forward.

I made my way downstairs quietly, my bare feet padding softly on the worn wooden steps. The house smelled like coffee and cinnamon rolls—my mother’s comfort food, the kind she made when she needed to keep her hands busy and her mind occupied.

She was standing at the kitchen counter when I entered, her back to me, rolling out dough with practiced efficiency. She didn’t turn around, but I saw her shoulders relax slightly when she heard my footsteps.

“Morning, baby,” she said softly.

“Morning, Mom.”

She turned then, her eyes moving over me with the careful assessment only a mother could manage—checking for new injuries, for signs of pain, for anything that might indicate I wasn’t okay. When she seemed satisfied, she smiled gently.

“Your father’s in the barn,” she said, answering the question I hadn’t asked yet.

I nodded, understanding passing between us without words. She knew I needed to talk to him. Knew that whatever conversation was about to take place needed to happen without her presence, without anyone else’s presence. Just father and daughter, finally being honest with each other.

“Go on,” she said, gesturing toward the back door with her flour-dusted hand. “I’ll have breakfast ready when you come back.”

I crossed the kitchen and kissed her cheek, leaving a smudge of flour on my lips that I wiped away with the back of my hand. “Thanks, Mom.”

“I love you, Brandy Lynn,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “No matter what. Always.”

“I love you too.”

The morning air was crisp and cool, carrying the scent of dew-wet grass and distant pine trees. There was something else too—a hint of woodsmoke from a neighbor’s chimney, mixed with the earthy smell of turned soil from the garden my mother had been tending the day before. The sun was still low on the horizon, painting everything in shades of gold and amber, casting long shadows across the gravel driveway and making the weathered wood of the barn glow like it was lit from within. It was the kind of morning that felt like a fresh start, like the world was offering a second chance, like anything was possible if you were brave enough to reach out and take it.