Page 33 of Property of Thrasher (Kings of Anarchy MC: South Carolina #1)
MELODY
T iny died three days after Lyric.
When the call came from the ICU, I already knew.
His machines had been humming a fragile rhythm, keeping him tethered to this world when his body was too broken to do it on its own.
I had sat by his bed with Thrasher more than once, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, whispering to him about Lyric, hoping he would hold on for her.
But he didn’t.
The nurse’s voice was gentle, practiced, as she told us the bleed had worsened, that he slipped away in his sleep. She said it like it was a mercy, but all I heard was finality.
Gone. Just like Lyric.
The only thing I could hold onto was that they were at least together in the afterlife.
The clubhouse turned into a cave of sadness.
Every brother wore his grief in silence, their cuts hanging heavy on their shoulders, the weight of loss bending even the strongest of them.
They didn’t cry, not out loud, but I saw it in their eyes, in the tight lines of their mouths, in the way they poured liquor like water and stared into the bottom of their glasses as if answers might float up from the dark.
For me, the grief came with guilt, a thick choking thing that settled in my chest and refused to let go.
Tiny and Lyric died because of me. I was sure of it. BJ wouldn’t have put forth the effort to find her. This was about my disobedience.
Logan and BJ had come for me. For the choice I’d made to run from the chains of the church. And instead of me, they’d stolen lives that weren’t theirs to touch.
I found Thrasher in the garage that night, hunched over his bike like it was the only thing keeping him from unraveling. His cut was tossed across a workbench, his forearms slick with grease. He didn’t look up when I walked in, but he knew I was there. He always knew.
“Tiny’s gone,” I whispered, as if saying it again would make it sink in.
His wrench clattered onto the concrete. He pressed his palms to the edge of the bench, head bowed. “Yeah.”
I swallowed, my throat raw. “It’s my fault.”
His head snapped up, eyes blazing. “Don’t you fucking say that.”
“It is,” I said, tears blurring my vision. “Logan, BJ—they came because of me. My past followed me here, and now your brother’s dead. I brought this into your world.”
He wiped his hands on a rag and stalked toward me, his presence so fierce it made the walls feel smaller. “You think you killed him? No. Tiny died because a couple of cowards ran dirty. They made that choice, not you. Don’t you dare carry that weight.”
“But it’s true,” I sobbed, my voice cracking. “Everywhere I go, they take something. They always take something.”
He cupped my face in his calloused hands, forcing me to meet his eyes. “Not anymore. You’re mine now. And mine means no one takes from you again. Not while I breathe.”
The vow in his voice seared into me, steady and unyielding.
Something inside me broke loose then, words I hadn’t even known I carried tumbling out. “Love is believing that someone will take care of all of it—the good, the bad, the ugly. I believe you’ll do that for me.” My chest heaved. “And I want to give that to you.”
His eyes softened just enough for me to see the man under the steel. He kissed me, deep and sure, tasting of grease and sorrow and promise. And for a moment, I believed him completely.
But belief wasn’t enough.
That night, when the clubhouse quieted and grief settled into restless silence, I slipped into an empty office and made the call I’d sworn I’d never make again.
Bishop Abel answered on the second ring, his voice smooth, warm, the way a serpent’s hiss might sound if it dressed in Sunday clothes. “Melody. My lost lamb. I prayed you’d come back.”
My stomach turned, but I forced my voice steady. “I will. If Logan comes to get me. I’ll submit to him. To the church. Whatever you want.”
There was a pause, heavy with satisfaction. “You’ve made the right choice. I’ll send him. Tomorrow night. Be ready.”
The line went dead, and I collapsed into the chair, shaking.
I told myself it wasn’t surrender. It was bait.
The gun felt heavy in my hands later, when I pulled it from the drawer Thrasher had once shown me, his lessons on how to aim, how to breathe steady, how to never point unless I meant to pull.
I wasn’t a killer, not by nature. But grief had changed me.
Anger had sharpened me. And if it meant ending Logan and BJ, if it meant no one else bled because of me, then I would do it.
Even if it broke me.
The meeting place was an abandoned stretch of county road, all cracked asphalt and weeds pushing through the edges. A single streetlight flickered, throwing sickly light onto the gravel shoulder. I stood there, gun tucked in my jacket pocket, my heart pounding so loud it drowned out the crickets.
Headlights cut through the dark. The truck rolled up, the same one that had shattered my world. Logan climbed out, taller, broader than I remembered, the scar on his cheek catching the glow. BJ followed, his grin too wide, too eager.
“Well, well,” Logan drawled, spreading his arms. “The prodigal finally comes home.”
My fingers clenched around the grip of the gun. I could feel Lyric’s laughter echoing in my bones, Tiny’s steady presence, the weight of everything stolen.
I pulled it free. Logan laughed manically, “where’s your man?”
“Logan, you came for me. You don’t touch him, you don’t touch his club. This is about us.”
He stepped closer as my entire body shook. I wasn’t afraid. In fact inside I was calm, controlled. I knew what had to be done.
“You think you’re gonna shoot me?” He taunted. “You’re outnumbered, Mel. You shoot me, BJ shoots you. If you shoot him first, well, I’m gonna play with you before I end you. Either way, Mel you don’t walk out of this.”
Before I could react and raise the gun, a shadow moved behind me. A strong hand closed over mine, twisting the gun out of my grip with practiced ease. Other movements came from behind Logan and BJ quickly subduing them onto their knees.
The Kings of Anarchy were all around.
Thrasher pulled me back against him, his chest solid against my spine, his breath hot at my ear. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, baby?”
“I had to,” I whispered, tears spilling. “I had to end it.”
He kissed the side of my head, fierce and rough. “That’s my job. Not yours.”
My hands shook as he tucked the gun into his waistband. “Please?—”
He turned me in his arms, holding me tight. “I’ve got you. Always. But I need to know right now—do you want to be present, or do you want me to take you off this scene? Because this ends now.”
The weight of the question sank into me. He was offering me a choice, a mercy. To look away, to keep my soul clean. But I couldn’t. Not this time. “I want to stay,” I whispered.
His eyes softened, pride flickering in them. He kissed me once more, hard, before turning me toward the headlights.
The rest of the Kings stepped from the shadows, surrounding Logan and BJ in a silent circle. Each brother held steel—blades glinting under the streetlight, grim purpose in their eyes.
Logan sneered, though I saw the flicker of fear in his gaze. “You think you scare me? I’m chosen. You can’t touch me.”
Thrasher stepped forward, his voice calm and cold. “You touched ours. That was your mistake. No God can save you from the Kings wrath, motherfucker.”
The first blade struck. A slice across Logan’s arm.
Then another, a stab to his thigh. One by one, each brother took a piece, a mark, a slow dismantling of the man who thought himself untouchable.
BJ screamed when his turn came, begging, sobbing, but the circle didn’t waver. Justice was shared, deliberate.
When Logan sagged to his knees, bleeding, gasping, barely clinging to life, I stepped forward.
“Wait,” I said, my voice ringing out sharper than I felt.
The brothers parted just enough for me to kneel in front of him. His eyes rolled to mine, glazed with pain, but still holding that flicker of arrogance.
“You thought you marked me,” I said, my voice trembling but strong.
“When you touched me as a girl, when you stole what wasn’t yours, you thought you owned me.
When you said it wasn’t a sin for you to take my ass since you kept my purity intact, it was simply another mark on your soul not mine.
You wanted to taint me, to break me, but you aren’t man enough to get to me.
All you did was carve rot into your own soul.
And to have this moment to watch the life drain from your eyes, I’ll gladly see you in Hell. ”
His lips moved, trying to form words, maybe a curse, maybe a plea.
I didn’t care.
I raised the blade Thrasher pressed into my hand, my grip steady for the first time all night, and drove it into his neck.
Blood spurted hot across my skin. His eyes went wide, then empty.
I let the knife fall, my body shaking, and collapsed into Thrasher’s arms. He caught me, held me close, his lips pressing to my temple as the night swallowed the last of Logan’s life.
“You’re safe now,” he murmured. “It’s done.”
And for the first time since the truck, I believed him.