Page 67 of Property of Thrasher
But the woman who’d survived, who’d lost everything, who knew the world was sharp and cruel and merciless… she was done begging.
She wanted them gone.
When I opened my eyes, Thrasher was still watching me, patient but fierce, as if he’d already decided his path but needed to know if I was on it with him.
“I’m not someone who wants revenge,” I managed, my voice breaking. “That’s never been me. I wanted to get away, to start over. I wanted… I wanted something clean. I wanted to exist quietly.”
His thumb brushed over my knuckles, rough and steady. “And now?”
“Now…” I swallowed, the grief burning into something hotter, darker. “Now I don’t want to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. I don’t want to wake up at night thinking they’re coming for me next. I don’t want to live in fear of the next time they decide to take something from me.”
My breath shuddered out. “If you’re the only thing standing between me and that, then yes. I trust you. I trust what you’ll do.”
The steel in his gaze didn’t soften, but something else sparked there—satisfaction, maybe, or relief. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to mine.
“That’s all I needed to hear,” he murmured.
I sagged against him, drained, but some part of me steadied in a way it hadn’t since the accident. It terrified me, knowing I’d just given myself to something I couldn’t take back. But it also felt… inevitable. Like I’d stepped into the path already predestined for me.
Thrasher’s world wasn’t clean. It wasn’t safe in the ways I used to dream about. But with him, I wasn’t powerless. With him, I wasn’t prey.
I was his.
And in his world, that meant protected.
The next day was a blur of condolences and logistics. Brothers took shifts in the hospital. Tiny’s condition wavered but held, a flicker of hope in the sea of grief. But Lyric’s absence hung heavy, a hole none of us could fill.
I sat in the chapel alone for a while, the small sterile room with its wooden cross and stiff chairs. I wasn’t sure if I believed anymore. But I whispered anyway—angry, broken words that weren’t prayers so much as accusations.
Why her? Why not me? Why always the ones who still had hope?
The silence gave me no answers.
When I came back to the waiting room, Thrasher was standing with DK, their heads bent low, voices hushed. Plans were being made. I didn’t ask details. I didn’t need them.
Thrasher looked up as soon as I walked in, his eyes locking on mine like I was the only anchor he needed. He crossed the space, his hand cupping the back of my neck.
“You good?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No. But I’m alive and with you. I will be.”
He kissed my forehead, rough and lingering. “That’s all I ask.”
That night, back at the clubhouse, the grief turned into something sharper. The brothers drank in silence, no music, no laughter. Just the heavy air of mourning and the electric buzz of rage.
I sat at a corner table, nursing a glass of water I barely touched, watching Thrasher move through the room. He wasn’t loud. He didn’t need to be. His presence alone carried weight, and every brother who met his eyes knew what was coming.
I realized then that revenge in this world wasn’t chaos. It was order. It was the way they balanced the scales when the law couldn’t—or wouldn’t. It was brutal, yes. But it was the only justice some men ever faced.
And for the first time in my life, I didn’t want to turn away from it.
I wanted to see the scales balanced. For Lyric. For Tiny. For me.
When Thrasher finally came back to me, his hand slid over mine, his eyes steady.
“You still with me?” he asked.
“Yes,” I whispered. “Always,” I promised.
