Page 69 of Property of Thrasher
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.
