Page List

Font Size:

The years of forced drugged compliance, the terror, the agonizing loneliness—it all boiled to the surface, a torrent of unleashed pain. I saw a flicker of triumph in George’s eyes, a perverse satisfaction at seeing the damage he’d inflicted, but it was quickly concealed by his practiced, cruel mask. He was still the puppet master, even now, attempting to control the narrative, to relish in the aftermath of his destruction.

August’s arm tightened around me, his own gaze locked on the evil bastard, a silent promise of retribution. The air crackled with unspoken threats, the fragile peace of our reunion threatened by the presence of the man who had orchestrated so much of our misery. I knew this wasn’t over, that George Stone wouldn’t simply disappear. But for the first time in twenty years, I wasn’t alone in facing him. And this time, I was ready to truly fight back.

“That’s not George!” August shouted, his arms tightening around me as I tried to break free. His words hung in the air, a lightning strike shattering the fragile peace. “That’s not him!” August’s voice boomed as he pulled me back into his protective embrace.

My head whipped toward him, a sudden, terrifying confusion clouding my relief. My mind, still reeling from years of trauma, struggled to reconcile what he was saying when the mastermind behind my torment stood not five feet from me. The one with the icy eyes and the cruel smile, the one I’d just verbally eviscerated, was not the architect of my suffering? The sheer exhaustion of it all, the constant shifting sands of deception, threatened to drag me back under.

“Montana, step the fuck back.” A young, handsome man rushed forward, stepping in front of me, blocking my view of the evil that plagued my life. As he looked at me, he calmly added, “Diana is it? My name is Zander Dunaway, but my brothers callme Torment. The man behind me is not George Stone. It’s his son, Montana. George Stone is dead.”

“Liar!” I screamed, trying to break free from August’s arms. “He’s standing right behind you!”

“No, baby,” August pleaded, holding me tighter. “George is dead,” August repeated, his voice rough with a pain I was only just beginning to understand. He pressed a kiss on my temple. “That’s Montana. Montana Stone. George’s son. He looks just like him, I know. He’s been working with me. He helped me bring down his own father.”

August’s explanation, delivered in hushed, urgent tones, was a whirlwind of confusion.

Montana Stone, the man I had just verbally flayed, was the son of my tormentor? It was a revelation that threatened to unravel my already frayed sanity. My focus, laser-sharp on George, suddenly blurred as the implications of August’s words slowly sank in.

This wasn’t the end of the charade, but a new, more twisted layer of it.

Zander, or Torment as he called himself, cautiously stepped forward, his expression a mixture of concern and a weariness that felt ancient. “Diana,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle, “August is telling you the truth. George Stone died a little over a year ago. Montana is the president of the Soulless Sinners now.” He gestured toward the man behind him, who stood mutely, his gaze fixed on me, a silent plea for understanding in his eyes, but all I could see was the man who embodied the very darkness I suffered.

My mind reeled.

Twenty years of fear of knowing, of seeing George’s face, his chilling cruelty, had been so deeply ingrained that even his death couldn’t erase his presence. To discover that the man I’dconfronted was his son was a cognitive dissonance I could barely process.

August pulled me closer, his strength my grounding force.

“We understand this is a lot, baby,” he murmured, his hand stroking my hair. “But it’s the truth. We’re all here for you. We’ll help you make sense of it all.”

I leaned into him; the fight draining out of me, replaced by profound exhaustion. The battle for my freedom had been won, but the war against the demons of my past was far from over.

It had just taken a turn I never could have predicted.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Bane

“She’s asleep,” Torment said sometime later as he walked into the mailroom. “She agreed to allow me to give her a sedative.”

“I don’t want her drugged, Torment,” I snapped.

“That’s not your decision. It’s hers. She needs to rest, Bane,” the club therapist argued, taking his seat. “That woman’s mind is fractured. She can’t differentiate between what’s real and what’s not. Until she can clearly see and comprehend the truth before her, she needs medication.”

I knew he was right. I didn’t like it, but he was right.

Leaning forward in my chair, I held my head. “This is all my fault. She suffered through hell, all because I couldn’t walk away from her. How will she ever forgive me?”

“Forgive you?” Montana grumbled, rubbing the red mark on his cheek. “I’m the one she attacked, asshole. You got a fucking hug.”

Mercy snickered. “Serves you right for being an asshole.”

“Am I the only one curious as to whotheyare?” Storm asked. “You all heard her when she laid into Montana. She saidthey.”

“Yeah,” Payne grunted, shifting his shoulder. “I caught that too.”

“It’s Meredith and Dakota,” Shame said, leaning forward in his chair. It was good to see him in his seat again. “When Sinclair and I got her out of the asylum, I saw the visitor logs. The two of them have been visiting her on a regular basis. Dakota more so than the bitch.”

“Malice and I heard her in Vegas. She said she ensured her incompetence. I didn’t know what that meant at the time. Now I do,” Montana groaned as he leaned back in his seat. “This is a clusterfuck.”