Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Torment
I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
Brandy. Her name circled through my head like a mantra, like a prayer I didn’t know how to finish.
Every mile that passed beneath the tires of Mercy’s SUV brought me closer to her, and every mile made the knot in my chest tighten until I could barely breathe.
My fingers drummed against my thigh in a restless rhythm that matched the pounding of my heart.
I’d been thinking about her non-stop since Shame had finally tracked her down—Bethlehem, Connecticut, living with her family in a house I’d never seen, surrounded by people I’d never met.
A whole life I knew nothing about because I’d never asked.
Because she’d been a club whore, and club whores didn’t get questions.
They got used and forgotten. That was the rule.
The unspoken code that everyone understood and no one questioned.
Except I hadn’t forgotten her. Not even close.
Not her laugh, not the way her eyes lit up when she smiled, not the softness of her voice when she whispered my name in the dark.
Weeks had passed since I last saw her, and she was still there in my head, haunting me like a ghost I couldn’t exorcise.
I’d tried to move on, tried to bury those memories under booze and distractions and empty hookups that left me feeling hollower than before.
Nothing worked. Nothing stuck. It was always her face I saw when I closed my eyes.
And now she was carrying my child.
The thought should have filled me with something—pride, maybe, or protectiveness, or even joy.
Something warm and affirming that made me feel like I was ready for this, like I could handle what was coming.
But all I felt was terror. Raw, unfiltered terror that clawed at my insides and whispered that I was going to fuck this up the same way I’d fucked up everything else that mattered.
That voice in my head was relentless, cataloging every mistake I’d ever made, every relationship I’d damaged, every opportunity I’d squandered through my own stupidity or cowardice or both.
It reminded me that good intentions had never been enough before, so why the hell would they be enough now?
The weight of responsibility pressed down on my chest like a physical thing, making it hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to do anything except sit there and marinate in my own inadequacy.
The same way I’d fucked up with Elise.
Her name was a wound that had never healed, a scar tissue that pulled tight every time I let myself think about her.
Elise. My submissive. The woman I’d loved in a way I’d never loved anyone before or since.
The woman who’d trusted me completely, who’d given herself over to my control without hesitation, who’d looked at me like I was everything she needed.
And I’d killed her.
Not intentionally. Not maliciously. But I’d killed her all the same.
That was what haunted me most—what kept me awake at three in the morning, staring at the ceiling, replaying those final moments over and over again.
Not the accident itself—accidents happened, even in the most controlled environments, even when you followed every protocol, checked every knot, monitored every breath—but the fact that I’d lost control.
That for one critical moment, I hadn’t been paying attention the way I should have been.
That I’d been so focused on the aesthetic, on the beauty of the scene, on the way the ropes created those perfect geometric patterns across her skin, that I’d missed the signs of distress until it was too late.
Her breathing had changed. Her color had shifted.
And I’d been too absorbed, too entranced by my own creation, to notice until those precious seconds had already slipped away.
And ever since then, I’d held myself back. I’d built walls around myself, brick by brick, until I was safely locked away from everything that had once brought me joy.
I’d never scened again. I’d never let myself fully give in to those raw desires that had once defined me, that had once felt like the truest expression of who I was.
I’d become a therapist instead, helping others navigate their kinks and their traumas, always maintaining that professional distance, always keeping myself locked down tight.
I listened to their stories, helped them process their experiences, guided them toward healthier expressions of their desires—all while denying myself those same freedoms. The irony wasn’t lost on me.
Because if I couldn’t trust myself to keep someone safe in a controlled scene, how could I trust myself with anything that mattered? How could I trust myself with real intimacy, real vulnerability, real connection? The answer was simple: I couldn’t.
How could I trust myself with Brandy?
She was pregnant with my child, and I still didn’t know if I was what she needed.
What she wanted. The uncertainty gnawed at me day and night, keeping me awake in those quiet hours when I should have been resting beside her.
I didn’t know if I could be the man she deserved—the kind of man who could protect her and provide for her and love her without the constant fear that I’d fuck it up somehow.
The kind of man who didn’t second-guess every decision, every word, every touch.
And more than that, I was terrified of what she’d think if she ever learned the truth about my past. About Elise.
About everything that happened that night and all the nights that followed.
About the shame I carried like a second skin, a weight so heavy and so familiar that I’d almost forgotten what it felt like to stand up straight without it pressing down on my shoulders.
Would she look at me differently? Would the warmth in her eyes turn cold, replaced by fear or disgust or pity—I wasn’t sure which would be worse? Would she see me as dangerous? As someone who couldn’t be trusted? As damaged goods, too broken to be the father her child needed?
Would she run? Would she take our baby and disappear, deciding that whatever we had wasn’t worth the risk of staying with someone like me?
“You’re thinking too loud,” Mercy said from the driver’s seat, his voice cutting through my spiral like a knife through fog.
I blinked, pulling myself back to the present.
We were on I-84 East, the highway stretching out ahead of us in a ribbon of asphalt and white lines that seemed to go on forever.
Traffic was moderate—not the gridlock of rush hour, but enough cars that Mercy had to stay alert, weaving occasionally into the left lane to pass slower vehicles.
The late morning sun slanted through the windshield at that perfect angle that made you squint even with the visor down, casting long shadows across the dashboard and turning the dust motes in the air into tiny floating stars.
We’d been driving for over an hour, maybe closer to an hour and a half, and I hadn’t said a word. Just stared out the window, watching the landscape change from urban sprawl to suburbs to something in between.
“Sorry,” I muttered, rubbing my face with both hands, feeling the rough stubble on my jaw. I needed a shave. Needed a lot of things, actually.
“Don’t apologize. Just talk to me.” Mercy glanced over at me, his expression unreadable behind his sunglasses—those expensive aviators he’d bought last summer and refused to replace even though one of the arms was slightly bent.
“You’re wound tighter than a fucking spring, brother. What’s going on in that head of yours?”
I didn’t answer right away. Didn’t know how to put it into words that wouldn’t sound pathetic or desperate or like I was losing my grip on reality. The silence stretched between us, filled only by the hum of the engine and the occasional whoosh of a car passing us in the fast lane.
“I’m scared,” I said finally, the admission tasting bitter on my tongue. The words felt foreign coming out of my mouth, like I was speaking a language I’d forgotten how to use. Admitting fear wasn’t something I did often—wasn’t something I did ever, really.
“Of Hex?”
“Of everything.” I leaned my head back against the seat, staring up at the roof of the SUV, tracing the contours of the fabric with my eyes.
The texture blurred as my vision lost focus.
“Of seeing her. Of what she’ll say. Of the look in her eyes when she realizes what I’ve done.
Of what happens next. Of what happens if there is no next. ”
Mercy was quiet for a moment, his hands steady on the wheel as he navigated around a slow-moving truck. The silence stretched between us, not uncomfortable but weighted with understanding. He’d always been good at knowing when to push and when to let things breathe.
“You care about her,” he said eventually. Not a question. A statement of fact.
“Yeah.” The word came out rougher than I intended, scraped raw from somewhere deep in my chest.
“More than just club business.”
“Yeah.” There was no point in denying it. Not to Mercy. Not to myself anymore.
“Then you fight for her.” Mercy’s voice was firm, certain, carrying the kind of conviction that made you want to believe anything was possible.
“You don’t run. You don’t hide behind excuses or fear or pride.
You show up and you fight for what you want.
That’s what brothers do. That’s what men do when they find something worth holding onto. ”
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe it was that simple, that love and determination could overcome the mess I’d made.
But nothing about this situation was simple. Nothing ever was when it came to matters of the heart and the ghosts that haunted us both.