Page 17 of The Bane of a Sinner
“And where does Diana fit into all of this?”
“From what I can figure,” Shame said, “George wants to use Diana’s connection to the Gods of Mayhem to force William’s hand.”
“Well, that will never work. The Gods of Mayhem are connected to the Brotherhood,” I inadvertently admitted.
“What?” Shame questioned instantly. “How?”
Shaking my head, I replied, “It doesn’t matter. What matters is protecting Diana.”
“That’s gonna be hard, Bane. You’re in love with her. To protect her would mean walking away from her. Is that something you can do?”
His question hung heavy in the sparse apartment, a brutal interrogation of my heart. Walk away from Diana? The thought was a physical agony, a betrayal of the very essence of what she’d brought into my life. My residency, the club, George’s machinations—they were all secondary to the fierce, protective instinct that now roared within me. But Shame’s words, cold and hard, resonated with the grim logic of our world. Love was a weakness, a vulnerability George was more than willing to exploit. To truly protect her, I had to become someone she couldn’t get close to, someone she wouldn’t fall for, someone who wouldn’t be used as a weapon against her.
A heavy silence descended, punctuated only by our ragged breaths. The map on the wall, a testament to George’s insidious game, seemed to pulse with malevolent energy. Diana’s face, so full of warmth and light, was now a target, a pawn in a brutal power struggle. Shame watched me, his expression a mixture of understanding and dread, waiting for my decision. The weight of it all, the lies, the betrayals, the tangled lineages, crashed down on me, threatening to drown me. I had to find a way to shield her, even if it meant creating a distance that would tear me apart.
“I don’t know,” I finally said, my voice raspy. “But I will protect her, no matter the cost.” My words felt inadequate, a whisper against the storm I knew was coming. My focus shifted from George’s grand plan to a more immediate threat: keeping Diana safe from the storm she was unknowingly caught in. The truth about her parentage, her connection to the Gods of Mayhem, was a powder keg, and George was holding the match.
And now, so was I.
Chapter Nine
Diana
It was late when the steam-slicked shower door swung open, revealing him. My breath hitched. The scent of his soap filled my lungs as his hands, rough yet gentle, closed around me. “God, I missed you, baby,” he rasped, his words a low growl that vibrated against my back.
My head fell back against his hard chest, and a sigh escaped my lips. “Same,” I whispered, the truth a raw ache. “And you have me for the rest of the week at least. I have to get ready for fall quarter.”
His grip tightened possessively. “It’s not enough. It’s a goddamn starvation diet. I want more.” His voice was a demand, a desperate plea.
“Greedy bastard,” I murmured, a faint smile playing on my lips despite the turmoil within.
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest as he turned me, his calloused fingers brushing the water from my face, his touch sending shivers down my spine. His eyes, the deep, hypnotic blue of a stormy sea, locked onto mine. “I mean it, Diana. I want you to stay permanently. Move in with me. Marry me.”
His words were a reckless vow, a dangerous promise.
Stunned, I whispered, “And what about everything? The club, George, our families?” My unspoken fear, the weight of my truth—a heavy burden that would only complicate his life more.
“I don’t give a fuck. Screw them all. My residency is almost over. I don’t have to stay at St. John’s Presbyterian. I can findanother hospital, and you can transfer anywhere. I just want you.”
Unlike August, I knew it wasn’t that easy.
I grew up in this world, with motorcycles, leather-clad brothers, and hushed deals in the dead of night. I knew the score and what was expected of me: loyalty, unwavering obedience, and a ruthless pragmatism that left little room for mercy. I knew my father and brother would never approve of my association with August, not as long as he wore the Soulless Sinner brand on his back—a brand that represented everything my family despised, everything I was supposed to despise. But I saw something in August... and he saw something in me, a flicker of defiance my family tried to extinguish. He saw the yearning beneath my carefully constructed façade of acceptance, to the gnawing emptiness of my family’s rigid code I couldn’t fill.
Instead, August offered me a chance at a different life, a chance to escape the suffocating weight of expectation, the endless cycle of violence and betrayal. He offered me freedom. And it was intoxicating. But accepting meant betraying everything I’d ever known, everything I’d been taught to value. It meant breaking my parents’ hearts, shattering my brother’s trust, the only person who ever truly understood me. The thought of their disappointment, their disgust, was a physical weight on my chest, a constant, agonizing reminder of the price of my rebellion. I knew I should walk away from him, but the image of August, vulnerable and desperate to be loved, would always haunt me. He needed me like I desperately needed him.
In the end, I chose him. I chose the intoxicating poison of freedom over the bitter, suffocating comfort of obedience. I chose to fail my family and to damn myself, knowing my actions would brand me with a stain far deeper and more unforgiving than any motorcycle club’s insignia.
And yet, I regretted nothing.
His lips twisted into a grim line. The words that followed were raw, untamed, a declaration of war. “I would do it. For you, I would. No one gets to tell me who I love, who I want. The club doesn’t own me,” he said as he leaned down and kissed me. His kiss seared me, silencing any lingering doubts I had, leaving me breathless and trembling, utterly consumed by the heat and the danger of our relationship.
His lips, a silken trap, brushed mine. The heat was shocking. It wasn’t just warmth; it was a feverish intensity, a taste of dark chocolate laced with something wickedly intoxicating—the shadowed promise of something forbidden. The scent of him, a heady blend of spice and something feral, clung to me, a possessive claim. His touch ignited a wildfire in my core, leaving me breathless, desperate. From that first stolen kiss, I wasn’t just addicted; I was consumed. He was my dangerous indulgence, a beautifully ruinous obsession I couldn’t—didn’t want to escape.
His chest, a furnace beneath my palms, pulsed with heat. His hands, possessive and strong, molded themselves onto my hips, igniting a wildfire in my core. It wasn’t just warmth; it was a calculated inferno, a deliberate kindling of the flames that burned deep within me. He was my paradox wrapped in skin, a man capable of both tenderness and a raw, volcanic passion that threatened to consume us both. His silences spoke of hidden desires and regrets, a tormented soul expressing itself through the scorching intimacy of his body, the only language he truly trusted.
This wasn’t merely affection; it was a desperate, beautiful surrender, a silent war fought on the battlefield of our entwined flesh. The scalding water on my skin was nothing compared to the fire burning where his touch grazed me. He pulled me closer, with a predatory, graceful movement, his mouth barely parting before the collision of our lips.
It wasn’t a kiss; it was a claim, a brand searing itself onto my soul.
