Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 75833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
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.
20
THRASHER
Three Months Later
Three months wasn’t long enough. Not for grief, not for healing, not for letting go. The clubhouse still carried a shadow where Tiny’s laugh used to echo, where Lyric’s smile used to light up the room. The brothers rode harder, drank deeper, worked longer. But under it all, that hole stayed. Some nights it felt like the air itself was thinner, like the club had to breathe for the ones we lost.
And then there was Melody.
She carried her own grief, but she didn’t break under it. She folded it into herself, carried it the way she carried everything—quiet, steady, stronger than she believed she was. She still had nightmares sometimes. I’d wake to her shaking, gasping, eyes wide with ghosts. But she’d always settle once I pulled her close, once I whispered that she was safe. And I never let her sleep alone. Not ever again would she have to close her eyes and find sleep without me holding her into her dreams. It was a silent vow I made laying on the pavement watching her fight to get up after we wrecked.
Tonight, I was determined to give her something that felt normal. Something that wasn’t blood or vengeance or the weight of loss.
Dinner. My daughter.
Elaina had been hesitant at first about meeting Melody. She wasn’t big on meeting the bitches I fucked, her words not mine. Hell, she’d been hesitant about a lot of things when it came to me and the club. But over the months, she’d opened up. She came around the clubhouse more, sat with Melody in the kitchen, asked questions about cooking and laundry and even books they both liked. They were closer than I’d expected. Sometimes I caught them laughing together, heads bent, like they were friends for a lifetime.
I wasn’t sure I’d ever been prouder—or more nervous—than I was watching them now, side by side at my kitchen table, passing plates back and forth.
“Pass the rolls,” Melody requested, her voice soft with that tone it got when she was relaxed.
Elaina grinned, sliding the basket across. “Only if you share that gravy. Dad made it too thick again.”
“Too thick?” I scoffed, pointing with my fork. “That’s called hearty. That’s how you make food stick to your bones.”