Page 33 of The Bane of a Sinner
“What?” I hissed through the pain, and the fucker grinned.
“That’s right, you little fucking pissant. You got the bitch pregnant.”
Shaking my head, I refused to believe him.
He was lying.
He had to be.
“I can prove it too.”
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” he asked menacingly and then stepped back as Truth landed another blow; this time, a crushing impact to my stomach. Air whooshed from my lungs, leaving me gasping and lightheaded. The pain wasn’t just physical; it was a deep, gnawing wound of betrayal.
The room spun, and my vision blurred, but I couldn’t afford to pass out. Not now. I forced my eyes to focus on Montana, searching for any hint of recognition, any spark of the friend I thought I knew. But his face was a mask, devoid of emotion. Was this truly the end of our brotherhood? Had our bond been so easily broken? My heart, already heavy with pain, now bore the weight of his betrayal. I thought of Meredith, the young girl I was only trying to protect, and the possibility of a child I may or may not have had a hand in creating. That night was still a blur, but something in George’s eyes told me he was telling me the truth.
Could it be true? I barely remembered that night. Only that I woke up naked and Meredith was there.
“You think you can protect her, boy?” Stone’s voice cut through the haze of my thoughts. “You can’t even protect yourself.” His words were a knife twisting in my gut.
I wanted to deny it, to scream that he was wrong, but the truth of his words hit me harder than any blow. I was failing. My body, once a source of strength, now felt weak and fragile under the relentless assault. Truth’s blows rained down, each one a hammer strike that echoed through my being. I could feel theheat of my blood, a stark contrast to the chill running through my veins.
Montana’s silence was worse than Truth’s blows, a slow, agonizing torture that carved its way into my soul.
“We have ways of making you talk, August,” Stone hissed, his breath hot on my face. The knife pressed closer to my eye. Fear, raw and visceral, coiled in my gut, cold and paralyzing.
My world tilted.
My thoughts flickered—images of Diana’s laugh, her kind eyes, the promise we’d made, the pact of loyalty that Montana had now shattered. Would she ever forgive me? Would I ever forgive myself? The questions swirled in my consciousness, a nauseating mix of pain and despair.
“It’s no use,” I whispered, my words final as I surrendered to the darkness. “I won’t tell you.”
Stone laughed, a harsh, cruel sound that echoed through the cold, damp chamber. The torture continued. But even in the depths of my pain, I knew one thing with chilling certainty: the silence of my friend was a judgment more terrible than any beating. It was a testament to the unforgiving reality that some betrayals were deeper, more agonizing, than any physical torment.
“What the hell is going on in here?” a deep timbered voice snarled as Malice strode into the room.
“Malice, my boy,” George greeted the quiet, subdued man who rarely talked to anyone. He looked at George Stone with such contentment, such vitriol, such malice, the president of the club actually stopped dead in his tracks.
Malice’s unexpected entrance brought a momentary halt to my torture, and I felt a surge of hope amidst the agony. Malice, who patched in a year ago, was a force to be reckoned with, and his presence demanded attention. His eyes, usually cold and unreadable, now blazed with an intense fury directed at GeorgeStone and his enforcer, Truth. The air crackled with tension as Malice’s gaze swept the room, taking in the scene of brutality.
“Get your fucking hands off him, Truth,” Malice ordered, his voice like a command from the grave.
Truth hesitated, his vacant eyes narrowing, but he stepped back, seemingly reluctant to challenge Malice directly. I felt a moment’s relief as the relentless pressure of his boots abated, but the respite was short-lived. George Stone, his face twisted with rage, stepped forward, the knife still in his hand.
“This doesn’t concern you, Malice,” he snarled, his eyes darting between us. “This is club business.”
Malice’s expression was unreadable, but his stance remained confrontational. “It concerns me when one of my brothers is being torn apart,” he said, his voice deceptively calm. “And it especially concerns me when it’s done without a fucking vote.”
“I agree,” Payne, another club brother, said, stepping into the room along with Storm, who asked, “What the fuck is going on in here?”
“I’d like to know that myself,” Popeye asked, as he, Snoopy, and Happy walked in.
“Dad is trying to get Bane to talk,” Montana finally spoke as he stepped away from the wall. “But he’s getting nowhere. Could have told him Bane wouldn’t talk, but he never asked me.”
Sighing, Popeye looked around the room and shook his head. “What the hell are you doing, George? Are you fucking crazy?”
“Back the fuck off, Popeye. This doesn’t concern you.”
