Page 30 of Property of Thrasher (Kings of Anarchy MC: South Carolina #1)

At first I thought she’d fallen asleep upright, her cheek tucked against my cut. Then I felt the little tremor run through her and she drew in a sharp breath that scraped raw on the way out.

“What?” I said, already tightening my hold. “What is it, baby?”

She didn’t answer right away. Her hands had been knotted in my shirt; now they fumbled at the hem like she was trying to peel it back, like she needed air.

I shifted her so I could see her face. It was drained, pupils wide, that washed-out look people get right before they pass out.

But she wasn’t going under. She was remembering.

“Talk to me,” I said, softer. “Right now.”

Her throat worked. “I know them,” she whispered.

Everything in me went cold. “Who?”

“The driver.” She swallowed again, eyes flicking to the doors like they might flood her with sirens and screams all over again. “The truck… I saw his face when he—God—when he turned his head. I know him.” She shook her head once, ragged. “Logan.”

My jaw clenched so hard it hurt. The name wasn’t one of ours. “Logan who?”

She stared at me, something like dread crawling up behind her eyes. “From back home. I told you we came from a place with horrors. He’s the worst of them.”

Montana. The cult town. The life she’d run from. The one that had tried to trap her in a marriage to an abuser. I felt rage uncoil in my gut like a chain coming off a sprocket.

“And the passenger,” she added, voice barely there. “BJ. Lyric’s husband.”

“You sure?” I kept my tone level because she didn’t need my anger. She needed ground under her feet. “You’re not guessing?”

“I’m sure.” She nodded, slow and steady, like each movement set broken glass shifting inside her.

“The scar on Logan’s cheek. He got it when we were kids.

Fell off the back of a tractor. He never let anyone forget it.

” Her breathing hitched. “BJ—he was laughing. I saw his mouth. He always laughs when he’s scared.

He—he laughs, Thrasher. He laughed at what might be her,” a sob escaped cutting her off from finishing the statement.

I had to steady myself because the room tipped for a second, the world narrowing to the fuzz of fluorescent lights and the taste of metal in my mouth.

I saw it like she did: the truck, the moment before impact, the faces.

They ran the light and took my brother and his girl out like they were bowling pins.

“Okay,” I said, and each letter was a nail I hammered into something solid. “You did good telling me. You hear me? You did good.”

Her eyes flooded with tears. She nodded like a little kid, and I pressed my forehead to hers for a beat, my palm cupping the base of her skull so she’d feel the anchor of me.

I straightened and lifted my chin at DK across the room. He was leaning against the far wall, texting like his thumbs were on fire. He clocked my look and came over, broad-shouldered and controlled, the way a man moves when he’s holding back a storm.

“What you got?” I asked.

“Plate,” he said without preamble. “Sweeper and Widower tailed ’em at a distance when they peeled off. Didn’t engage. Got the tag twice, plus a partial from a waitress at the corner diner—truck had almost clipped her crossing. All three match.”

“Run it?”

“Guru put it through one of his programs or hacks, I don’t fucking know. Came back registered to a Byrum Jenson, old man in Montana.” He jerked his chin toward Melody, checking himself at the last second and glancing away like this was hers to own, not ours. “That track with what she just said?”

Melody’s fingers dug into me. “BJ is Byrum Jr,” she whispered. I covered her hand with mine. “It tracks,” I stated. “you know what to do.”

DK blew out a breath through his nose, the muscle in his jaw flexing. “Hit and run with critical injuries. We got witnesses, phones out the ass, traffic cams. Cops’ll have it in an hour anyway.”

“They already talked to you?” I questioned

He grimaced. “Uniforms came through for statements. I told ’em what they needed to hear and not more.

We’re the victims here, and we’re gonna act like it.

But—” he leaned in, voice low, “if these boys are out-of-towners with a line on our people, I don’t love cops making the first contact while we sit on our hands. ”

I looked down at Melody. Her eyes were on me, wet and blazing. She was terrified, yes, and guilt-ridden in that way survivors get—like she’d failed Lyric by breathing—but there was steel under it. She’d come from a place that tried to crush her, and it hadn’t worked. Not all the way.

“BJ’s dad,” she said faintly. “He’s dangerous, Thrasher. He… he owns the property a lot of the families work. Has pull. If the truck’s in his name, he’ll make them disappear.”

“Not from me,” I said. I didn’t raise my voice, didn’t have to. She felt the promise. “Not from us.”

Tires on gravel. A girl’s scream cut off. Tiny’s body hitting the road. The images played behind my eyes like a loop, and every time the truck ran the red the anger inside me got cleaner, sharper, easier to use.

Sweeper came in with Widower on his heels. Both men had that feral look they got when fight energy had nowhere to go.

“You tailed ’em,” I expressed what was actually known. “Where’d they land?”

“Pulled off backroads toward the state line,” Sweeper shared. “Lost ’em for a mile where the pines get thick. Hoped they’d ditch the truck we saw, but we found fresh ruts cut across an easement the county maintains. Gate lock was busted. We didn’t push it. Not with just two.”

“Right call.” I glanced at Melody. “Anything around here those names would know? Any friends, family, land?”

She blinked, mind clicking through maps I couldn’t see. “If they came all this way, it’s not random. But I don’t know who they would contact.”

When they backed off, I felt Melody sag against me like the adrenaline keeping her spine straight had finally burned off.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, the words breaking. “I should’ve seen—should’ve said something sooner—I—I thought they were behind us.”

“Stop.” I put two fingers under her chin and made her look at me. “You got knocked off a moving bike and watched your family bleed. You don’t owe anyone perfect recall on top of that.” I softened my thumb along the line of her jaw. “You told me. That’s enough.”

Her lip trembled. “They meant to do it.”

It wasn’t a question, but I answered anyway. “Yeah.”

“How did they find us?”

I could’ve lied. I could’ve said coincidence, wrong place, wrong time, men who didn’t know what they were doing. But she’d been fed lies all her life by men who loved control more than truth. I wouldn’t be one of them.

“Because you got out,” I said. “Because people who live scared hate proof that chains can break. Because you wouldn’t crawl back on command.

And from what Guru has gathered and text me about an hour ago, they hacked some traffic cams, toll booths, and shit on the car that y’all drove in. Guess it was registered to Lyric’s ex.”

Her eyes closed like the weight of that landed. A tear slid sideways across her temple and into her hairline. I caught it with my knuckle.

“Listen to me,” I said, and my voice dropped.

“You’re mine. That means you don’t walk through this alone.

Not today. Not tomorrow. Not when they try to crawl out from under whatever rock they duck under.

” I leaned in, so close she could feel the truth of it in my breath.

“And if you’re thinking they can touch you again without consequence, stop. Right here. That ends now.”

Her inhale shuddered. She nodded, a small, decisive movement that sent something unclench in my chest.

A uniform drifted our way, notepad ready. He had the wary look of a man stepping into a den of lions with a steak around his neck. Behind him, Pinky lifted his palm like: easy. I squared my shoulders.

“Sir,” the cop said, eyes flicking to my cut and back up to my face. “Ma’am. I’m taking statements from parties involved in the motorcycle incident on Route 17. It’s my understanding, you two were transported from the scene and were impacted by the collision.”

“Had to lay the bike down not to run into the backend of the truck,” I explained. “Got some road rash. We had the green light, that’s all I remember.”

“Did either of you get a look at the driver?”

I felt Melody tense. I put a hand at her back and kept my focus on the cop. “Just remember the green light, officer.”

He nodded, scribbling. “Dammit, Flores, I know the Kings don’t like to share information with with cops. But this shit, we’re on your side, man. Let us help you. Tell your boys to loop us in on what they get and we can give you the same respect.”

“They’ll do what they feel is right,” I replied. “We want the same thing you do.”

He studied me like he knew that wasn’t entirely true. I didn’t blink. After a beat, he pasted on that polite professional look again and left.

Melody’s fingers found mine again and squeezed. “I’m scared,” she whispered.

“Me too,” I admitted. It cost me nothing to say it and bought me the thing I actually needed—her trust. “But I’m fueled by revenge. This won’t go untouched.”

The clock over the nurse’s station ticked.

A TV on mute flashed images of a cooking show that felt obscene in the face of what was happening behind those doors.

Melody’s head slid down again, this time not to cry or shock, but from sheer depletion.

I moved us to a loveseat time of set up and let her sag against my side.

While she slept against me, I let my head hit the wall and, for the first time since the truck, I let myself think about what I’d do when we had the all-clear. I didn’t let it get bloody in my mind. I didn’t need gore. What I needed was precision.