Chapter 22 #2
His eyes were wide, fixed on the screen with an intensity that bordered on reverence. His jaw was slack, his usual mask of control completely shattered. And as I watched, he leaned down, his free hand coming up to cup my cheek, and pressed his lips to mine.
It wasn’t the kind of kiss we’d shared before—not hungry or desperate or fueled by the kind of raw need that had defined our relationship in Diamond Creek.
This was something else entirely. Something tender and gentle and achingly real.
It was a promise, maybe, or a confession, or both.
It was everything he couldn’t say out loud, distilled into a single moment of contact.
When he pulled back, his eyes met mine, and I saw it.
Really saw it. He wanted this baby. Not out of obligation.
Not because the club expected it or because it was the right thing to do.
He wanted this baby because it was ours.
Because it was real. Because somewhere along the way, between Diamond Creek and this moment, he’d started to believe we could have this.
I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t find the words. But I squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back, and for just a moment, the weight of everything else—the club, the Federation rules, my father’s threats, the uncertainty of our future—faded into the background.
“Everything looks good,” Dr. Brennan said, oblivious to the emotional storm raging between Torment and me. “Strong heartbeat, good size for gestational age. I’d say you’re right on track for a healthy pregnancy.”
She printed out a few images from the ultrasound, handing them to my mother, who clutched them like they were precious artifacts.
I sat up slowly, wiping the gel from my stomach with the paper towels the nurse provided, and tried to steady my breathing.
Tried to process what had just happened.
Tried to reconcile the overwhelming reality of that heartbeat with everything else swirling through my mind.
We left the clinic in a daze—at least I did.
My mother was chatting with Dr. Brennan about follow-up appointments and prenatal care, her voice bright with the kind of relief that came from knowing everything was okay.
Torment walked beside me, his hand still holding mine, his grip steady and sure.
And when we stepped out into the parking lot, the morning sun bright and warm on my face, I felt something shift inside me.
Something fragile and tentative, but real.
Hope, maybe. Or the beginning of it.
My father and Mercy were standing by the SUV, their heads bent close together in conversation.
They looked up as we approached, and I saw my father’s expression soften slightly when he saw my mother’s smile.
But then his gaze shifted past us, his entire body going rigid, and I felt Torment’s hand tighten around mine.
The sound of motorcycle pipes echoed through the parking lot, low and rumbling, growing louder with each passing second.
I turned, my heart suddenly pounding again, and saw a lone rider approaching from the far end of the lot.
The bike was moving slowly, deliberately, like the rider was in no hurry.
Like they had all the time in the world.
Mercy’s hand went to his waistband, his fingers brushing the grip of his gun.
My father stepped forward, positioning himself between us and the approaching rider, his expression hard and unreadable.
And Torment moved too, his body shifting to shield me, his free hand reaching for my mother and pulling her closer.
The rider was covered from head to toe—black helmet with a tinted visor, black leather jacket, black gloves.
Even the motorcycle was non-descript, a plain black cruiser with no club patches, no identifying marks, nothing that would give away who they were or where they came from.
They could have been anyone. Could have been from any club.
Could have been a threat or just a random biker passing through.
But the way they moved—slow and deliberate, their attention fixed on my father—told me this wasn’t random.
The rider slowed as they drew level with us, the engine idling low. And then, with a movement so deliberate it felt choreographed, they raised one hand and pointed directly at my father. Their fingers formed the shape of a gun, thumb cocked back like a hammer, and they mimed pulling the trigger.
Bang.
The gesture was unmistakable. A threat. A promise. A message delivered in the universal language of violence.
Then the rider revved the engine and accelerated, disappearing down the street in a roar of pipes and exhaust. The sound faded slowly, leaving behind a silence so heavy it felt like a physical weight pressing down on all of us.
My father’s jaw was clenched so tight I thought his teeth might crack.
Mercy’s hand was still on his gun, his eyes scanning the street like he expected the rider to circle back.
And Torment—Torment was staring at my father with an expression I couldn’t quite read. Understanding, maybe. Or recognition.
“Get in the car,” my father said, his voice low and dangerous. “Now.”
My mother didn’t argue. She climbed into her sedan without a word, and I followed, my legs feeling unsteady.
Torment slid in beside me, his hand still holding mine, and Mercy jumped into the SUV.
My father stood outside for a moment longer, his gaze fixed on the empty street, before finally climbing behind the wheel of my mother’s car.
As we pulled out of the parking lot, I looked at Torment, and I saw it in his eyes.
He understood. This wasn’t about the Soulless Sinners.
This wasn’t about the club or the Federation or any of the things we’d been fighting about.
This was about my father. About his past. About the life he’d left behind and the enemies he’d made along the way.
And somehow, I’d dragged Torment and his club right into the middle of it.