Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Torment
I lowered her carefully to the floor, my hands steadying her as her legs trembled beneath her weight.
My breathing was still heavy, ragged, my heart pounding against my ribs like it was trying to break free.
I stepped back just enough to zip my pants, the sound of the zipper loud in the quiet room, and then I watched her.
I couldn’t stop watching her.
Every micro expression. Every shift in her body language.
Every tiny tell that revealed what she was thinking, what she was feeling, what she was trying to hide.
It was what I did—what I’d been trained to do—cataloging human behavior, reading the unspoken language of trauma and desire and fear.
But with Brandy, it wasn’t clinical. It wasn’t professional. It was visceral. It was need.
Her body still trembled, aftershocks of pleasure rippling through her muscles.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps.
Her eyes were wide, unfocused, like she was still processing what had just happened between us.
Like she was trying to reconcile the raw, desperate passion with the reality of who we were and what this meant.
And then I saw it—the moment the realization hit her.
The moment she understood that I wasn’t walking away.
That this wasn’t just sex. That I’d made my choice, and she was it.
She was mine. The baby was mine. And I wasn’t letting her go, no matter what the club said, no matter what her father threatened, no matter what the Federation rules dictated.
Her expression shifted—confusion giving way to something softer, something vulnerable. Hope, maybe. Or fear. Or both tangled together so tightly she couldn’t separate them. She opened her mouth like she was about to say something, something important, something that might change everything—
A sharp knock at the door shattered the moment.
My head snapped up, every muscle in my body going rigid.
Brandy’s eyes flew to the door, panic flashing across her face.
She scrambled for her clothes, grabbing her jeans and panties from where I’d discarded them on the floor.
I gave her a few seconds, watching as she pulled them on with shaking hands, her movements frantic and uncoordinated.
When she was dressed—barely, her hair still wild and her lips still swollen from my kisses—I moved to the door and opened it.
Mercy stood in the hallway, leaning against the doorframe with a shit-eating grin plastered across his face.
He knew. Of course he knew. He’d probably heard us, or maybe he’d just put two and two together when I’d dragged Brandy upstairs and disappeared into her bedroom.
Either way, the knowing look in his eyes said everything.
“Brandy,” he said, nodding at her with exaggerated politeness, like he hadn’t just interrupted us in the aftermath of fucking against her bedroom wall.
She didn’t respond—just crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him.
Mercy’s grin widened, then he turned his attention to me.
“Montana wants to talk to Hex. Meet me in the barn.” His tone left no room for argument, no space for negotiation.
It was a command, plain and simple. He turned and walked away without waiting for a response, his boots heavy on the stairs as he descended.
The second he was gone, Brandy’s face hardened. The vulnerability I’d seen moments ago vanished, replaced by something cold and bitter. She sneered at me, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Go. Club first, right?”
The accusation cut deeper than it should have.
Deeper than I wanted to admit. Because she was right.
The club always came first. It was the code we lived by; the hierarchy that governed every decision, every action, every relationship.
Brotherhood above all else. And here I was, standing in her bedroom with the taste of her still on my lips, and I was about to walk away because Montana had called.
I sighed, the sound heavy with frustration and resignation.
I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to stay here, to finish the conversation we’d started, to make her understand that this wasn’t just obligation or duty or club business.
But I couldn’t. Not yet. Not until I dealt with whatever Montana wanted, whatever crisis was unfolding in the barn.
I nodded reluctantly, and that was all it took.
Brandy shoved past me, her shoulder slamming into mine with enough force to make me stumble back a step.
She disappeared into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her.
The sound of the lock engaging echoed through the room, sharp and final, like a door closing on something I’d just started to build.
I stood there for a moment, staring at the closed bathroom door, processing the shift.
One moment I’d been inside her, feeling her body clench around me, hearing her muffled moans against my palm.
And the next she was locked away from me—literally and figuratively—shutting me out because I’d chosen the club over her. Again.
I wanted to knock on the door. Wanted to tell her she was wrong, that she mattered more than Montana’s demands, more than the club’s expectations. But the words wouldn’t come. They never did. And even if they had, I wasn’t sure she would have believed me.
So I turned and left, closing her bedroom door quietly behind me.
The walk downstairs felt longer than it should have.
Every step was weighted with the conflict tearing through me—Brandy, the baby, Hex, the mystery rider, Montana, the club.
Everything collided at once, pulling me in a dozen different directions, and I didn’t know which way to go.
I didn’t know how to balance the life I’d built in the MC with the life I wanted with her.
And the worst part was, I wasn’t sure I could have both.
Outside, the air was cool and crisp, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the yard.
I could see the barn in the distance, the door slightly ajar, light spilling out from inside.
I walked toward it, my boots crunching on the gravel driveway, my mind racing with possibilities.
What did Montana want with Hex? What could he possibly say that would make any difference?
Hex had made his position clear—he wanted nothing to do with the MC world, and he sure as hell didn’t want his daughter dragged into it.
I reached the barn and stepped inside, the smell of oil and old leather hitting me immediately, mixed with the faint scent of hay and dust that seemed to cling to everything in this place.
The space was dimly lit, with only a few weak rays of afternoon sunlight filtering through the gaps in the weathered wooden slats, leaving shadows pooling in the corners like dark water.
The barn felt cavernous and oppressive at the same time, the high ceiling disappearing into darkness above while the walls seemed to close in around the tension crackling in the air.
In the center of the space stood Mercy and Hex, toe-to-toe, their voices raised in an argument that had clearly been going on for a while.
Both men were rigid with tension, their shoulders squared and their fists clenched at their sides.
The air between them practically vibrated with barely contained aggression.
“—just talk to him,” Mercy was saying, his tone firm but not aggressive, his hands held out slightly in a placating gesture. “That’s all Montana’s asking. Just hear what he has to say. Give him a chance to explain the situation.”
“No.” Hex’s voice was cold, controlled, but there was a seething rage underneath it, barely contained, like magma churning beneath a thin crust of rock.
His jaw was tight, a muscle twitching in his cheek.
“I don’t have to do shit. I’m not a brother.
I’m not part of any club. I don’t owe Montana—or anyone else—a goddamn thing. ”
“He’s trying to help,” Mercy insisted, taking a small step closer, his voice dropping slightly as if he could somehow defuse the situation through sheer reasonableness.
“He’s trying to figure out a way to make this work.
To protect Brandy and the baby without violating Federation rules. You know how complicated this is.”
“Federation rules,” Hex repeated, his voice dripping with contempt, practically spitting the words.
He shook his head slowly, a bitter smile twisting his lips.
“You mean the rules that were put in place specifically to keep me and my family out of your world? The rules that were designed to punish me for daring to fight back against the men who betrayed me? Those rules?”
Mercy’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t back down. “Those rules exist for a reason—”
“Those rules exist because three cowards decided it was easier to silence me than to admit what they’d done,” Hex snapped, his voice rising for the first time since I’d walked into this tense standoff.
The sudden shift in his tone made the air in the room feel heavier, more dangerous.
“William Doherty. Titan. And that lying bastard, George motherfucking Stone.”
The way he said George Stone’s name—the venom dripping from every syllable, the hatred that seemed to radiate from his very core, the raw, visceral fury that twisted his features into something almost unrecognizable—made my blood run cold.
This wasn’t just old MC business, the kind of petty disputes that got settled over a few rounds at the bar or a fistfight in the parking lot.
This wasn’t just a grudge or a disagreement over club politics, territory disputes, or who wore what patch on their vest. This was personal.
This was deep. This was the kind of betrayal that left scars that never healed, the kind that festered and rotted until it consumed everything around it.
I stepped forward, my boots heavy on the worn floorboards, my presence finally registering with both men.
Mercy glanced at me over his shoulder, his expression grim and weary, like he’d been dreading this conversation for years and knew exactly how badly it could end.
Meanwhile, Hex’s eyes narrowed dangerously, his entire body tensing as he assessed me like a predator evaluating potential prey—deciding whether I was a threat or just another obstacle in his way, another person trying to keep him from whatever justice or revenge he’d been seeking all these years.
“What does George Stone have to do with this?” I asked, keeping my voice steady and calm despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins like liquid fire. My heart was pounding, but I couldn’t let either of them see that this situation had me rattled.
Hex’s gaze locked onto mine with an intensity that felt like a physical force, and for a moment—just a brief, flickering instant—I thought he might actually answer.
I could see the war playing out behind his eyes, the debate between keeping his secrets buried and finally letting someone else carry the weight of whatever truth he’d been shouldering alone.
But then his expression hardened like steel cooling after being forged, his jaw clenching, and he shook his head slowly. “That’s none of your fucking business.”
“It is if it affects Brandy,” I shot back, my voice rising with frustration.
“If Montana’s father is connected to whatever happened to you, then it’s my business.
Because I’m not letting her get caught in the crossfire of some decades-old vendetta.
” I took a step closer to him, my fists clenched at my sides.
“I don’t care how deep this goes or how many secrets you’re keeping.
If it puts her at risk, I have a right to know. ”
“You don’t get to decide that,” Hex said, his voice low and dangerous, each word deliberate and measured.
“You don’t get to waltz in here and act like you have any say in what happens to my daughter.
You’ve known her for what, a few weeks? A couple months?
” His eyes blazed with fury. “You’re the reason she’s in this mess in the first place.
If you hadn’t claimed her, hadn’t dragged her into club business, she’d be safe right now. ”
“I’m trying to fix it,” I said through gritted teeth, fighting to keep my temper in check. Every muscle in my body was coiled tight, ready to strike. “I’m trying to protect her. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”
“By dragging her deeper into the club?” Hex laughed, the sound bitter and humorless, echoing off the barn walls.
“By claiming her and tying her to a world that will destroy her the same way it destroyed me? That’s not protection.
That’s a death sentence.” He shook his head, disgust written across his weathered features.
“You’re signing her death warrant and calling it love. ”
I opened my mouth to argue, to demand answers about George Stone and what he’d done to earn Hex’s hatred, to defend my choices and my claim on Brandy.
But before I could speak, before I could unleash the torrent of words building in my chest, Mercy’s phone buzzed in his pocket, cutting through the thick tension like a knife.
He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and his expression shifted from watchful neutrality to something sharper, more alert. “It’s Montana.”
The tension in the barn ratcheted up another notch, the air suddenly so thick I could barely breathe.
Hex’s jaw clenched, the muscles jumping beneath his skin, his hands curling into white-knuckled fists at his sides.
Mercy looked between us, his eyes calculating, weighing the situation.
Then he answered the call, putting it on speaker so we could all hear.
“Montana,” Mercy said, his voice carefully neutral. “You’re on speaker. Torment and Hex are here.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line, a moment of silence that seemed to stretch on forever. Then Montana’s voice came through, rough and strained but unmistakably commanding, carrying the weight of authority that came with being president of the club. “Hex. We need to talk.”