Property of Nash (Kings of Anarchy MC, West Virginia #1)

Chapter One

“Right this way, Ms. Berry.” The attendant’s voice was soft—yet still jarring enough to slice her panic open all over again.

Cassie followed, her legs obeying before her mind could protest, her footsteps echoing against the tile as she moved down a corridor that sloped toward the hospital’s back wing. The air cooled with every step, but it didn’t ease—if anything, it only grew heavier, crowding her chest.

Through a steel door, industrial antiseptic scorched her nostrils, but beneath it lingered something faintly metallic. Across the way, a wall of drawers faced her, stark and uniform, each one fitted with a single metal handle.

The attendant’s hand closed around a handle somewhere in the middle, the metal sliding free with a sharp, hollow sound. Cassie’s knees nearly gave out; bile surged, clawing up her throat.

She hadn’t eaten in days. Hadn’t slept. Not since the voicemail—

We’ve recovered a body we believe to be your brother, Connor Berry…

Eight hours from Paris to New York. Four in limbo. Two more to Wheeling. A rented sedan racing through the mountains.

“Do you need a moment?” the attendant asked gently. “Maybe some air?”

She shook her head, tightening her blazer around her as if it could shield her from this fucking nightmare. “Just—show me.”

The sheet peeled away. Clumps of black hair, oily and matted. Dark lashes against pale, sunken cheeks. Bruised lips parted slightly.

It wasn’t him.

It couldn’t be him.

But every crooked line of his nose, every scar along his collarbone—from that dirt bike crash as a teen—was proof enough. His hands, stiff at his sides, still bore the calloused knuckles she knew by heart.

“That’s…my—” Her voice splintered. “That’s my brother.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss.” The attendant bowed his head. “Would you like some time alone with him?”

Alone? Her body begged to bolt from this hell—yet her feet might as well have been nailed to the floor, her brother’s face a magnet she couldn’t break away from.

“How—how did he die?” Her voice fractured on the words.

The attendant hesitated. “Toxicology’s still being finalized, but…” He exhaled quietly. “There were opioids in his system. Fentanyl among them.”

Cassie stared at him. “Fentanyl?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Another pause. “And…there are indications this wasn’t recent.”

“Indications?”

His gaze flicked briefly toward Connor’s body. “Track marks. Arms…and elsewhere.”

Each word smashed into her like a fist. Opioids. Fentanyl. Track marks.

She pushed on. “How long…how long was he using?”

“There’s no exact way to tell, but…it could’ve been ongoing.”

Cassie’s mind jumped—last calls, missed texts, half-remembered conversations she’d brushed off because she’d been too busy, too far, too sure he was fine.

“Who found him? Where was he? When did he…” The questions tumbled out, sharp and uneven, but the attendant didn’t flinch.

“The police found him near the old rail line. It’s a hangout—known for, uh, transient activity.”

Her control began to crack. Tears burned, blurring white walls and steel drawers into a gray smear. The old rail line? Her brother had died like a stranger in his own damn town?

Clearing his throat, the attendant spoke again. “We, uh, have some of his belongings. The police have the rest.”

“Police.” The word slipped out, strained.

“Standard procedure with narcotics, ma’am. Just paperwork, I’m afraid.”

The drawer slid back with a clank. The door banged shut, the sound echoing down the hall as Cassie fled, the attendant’s footsteps fading into the distance.

The rhythm followed her—through the twilight, across the empty lot—until it cut off with the slam of the car door.

Silence rushed in. In her lap, she clutched a brown paper sack—the remnants of a life stuffed into something meant for leftovers.

Her fingers trembled as she tore it open, the heavy leather coming free. The Kings of Anarchy patch was dulled with grime, edges fraying. His name patch—Con-Man—scarcely clung to the front, threads hanging loose.

Barely breathing, Cassie’s grip tightened.

“We’re gonna be Kings, Cassie,” he’d told her once, green eyes bright, voice full of that same stubborn certainty. “We’ll never go hungry again.”

That vest had been everything back then. Survival. Protection. Promise. Family.

Now it sagged in her hands—heavy with everything she hadn’t been there to see…

Opioids. Fentanyl. Track marks. The fucking rail yard.

She couldn’t make sense of it. Connor had always been reckless, sure—but never like this.

Not…fentanyl.

Heart racing, breath sharp and uneven, she ripped the dangling name patch free. Stuffing both the patch and vest into her crossbody, she tore out of the lot—headed toward…

fucking answers.

The drive from the hospital in Wierswood to Clifton Ridge was short—just a stretch of highway, then winding country roads—but it felt endless.

The same route she once tore down at top speed, music blaring from her old Chevy, had turned into a funeral march—just the hum of tires as the road unspooled beneath her, the town rising ahead, tucked between hills and forest, its skyline scarred by the rusting skeletons of dead factories.

Welcome to Clifton Ridge, West Virginia, the fading sign declared.

Home of the Champion Clifton Crusaders! For one fleeting heartbeat, she could still see them—teenagers perched high on the sign, sun-tanned legs swinging, a case of beer wedged between them, laughing as they chucked empties at passing cars.

The past blinked out as the road carried her forward. She eased onto the main drag, the town hitting her all at once.

Clifton had never been rich, but it used to have soul.

Now it looked gutted—storefronts boarded, walls cracking and crumbling, the coal miner statue outside the courthouse missing half its limbs.

Across the square, an old church sagged, white paint peeling, its steeple bell hanging cockeyed and silent.

She could still feel Connor’s hand gripping hers as they walked the path behind their mother’s casket.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he whispered, squeezing her hand. “You’re stuck with me, kid. Forever.”

Her chest constricted. Black lung had taken their daddy. Grief had taken their mama. And now…Connor…

A horn blared behind her.

“Move it, damn it!”

Cassie blinked, jerking her focus back to the road as a pickup swerved around her, the driver leaning out the window to throw her a look before gunning it past her.

Nostrils flaring, she slammed her foot on the gas, tires squealing as she tore onto Black Bear Trace.

Sagging houses blurred into forest and dirt turnoffs.

Over a decade gone, but she remembered every turn, every marker, her eyes scanning the trees until she found it—a crude crown spray-painted on a signpost, marking a narrow road.

She turned in. The forest swallowed her car, branches weaving a tunnel of shadow until one sharp bend opened into a clearing.

The Kings of Anarchy clubhouse loomed. A massive barn, weather-worn, their emblem glowering down from the peak—a masked skull wearing a crooked crown.

The lot was packed. Bikes lined in formation. Trucks scattered like afterthoughts. From inside, bass-heavy music pounded through the walls, broken by bursts of laughter.

One man leaned against the siding, his mouth buried in a woman’s neck. Another paced by the door, phone pressed to his ear. A third watched on as a woman danced barefoot on the hood of a car.

This wasn’t grief.

This was a fucking party.

Parking, Cassie yanked down the visor, swiping on lip balm, blackening her eyes with a quick stroke of a finger. She stripped off her blazer—leaving her in a cropped tank and leggings—and grabbed her bag.

“Shoulders square, kid,” Connor whispered. “You always walk into a place like you own it—even if you’re just borrowin’.”

Squaring her shoulders, she marched up to the bald, tattooed biker in front of the door and plastered on a big, fake smile. “Hi…Snake,” she greeted him, reading his patch.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asked, tucking his phone away.

“Tiffany,” she said, slipping into her old accent. “But everyone calls me Tiff.”

“I don’t give a shit what they call you. This is invite-only.”

Cassie feigned a pout. “But I was invited. Met this guy at Shooter’s a few nights back—Nate or Nick or somethin’? He gave me directions. Said to swing by if I felt like a party.”

“That so?”

“Sure is.” She crossed herself with exaggerated care. “Swear on my mama.”

Snake’s gaze dipped to her chest, his smirk slow. He leaned in close, the booze on his breath sharp and pungent. “Ain’t no gods here, sweetheart. Only devils.”

Cassie bared her teeth. “Sounds perfect.”

Chuckling, he stepped aside, pulling open the door. “Then, Tiff, welcome to hell.”

The clubhouse innards were smoky and low lit, a rock song snarling under the din of voices.

For a heartbeat, Cassie stood frozen in the doorway, letting it crash over her, remembering the first time she ever stepped inside.

Young and dumb, she’d mistaken their excess for invincibility—the parties, the easy cash, the way the whole town seemed to bend around the Kings like they were something untouchable.

She knew better now. They were just men. As fallible as everyone else.

Pushing through the crowd, she made her way toward the bar ahead—same chipped wood, same chrome trim. A bleach-blonde in a bikini top leaned over the counter.

“What can I get ya, sugar?”

“White whiskey,” Cassie replied, eyes darting to and fro.

“Shooter or glass?”

“Shooter.”

The second the bartender turned her back, Cassie ducked behind the counter, fingers finding the switches.

Flick—the music cut.

Flick—the lights snapped on.

The room jolted. Laughter died mid-breath. Conversations choked off.

“What in the hell?” the bartender shrieked. “Get out from there!”

Ignoring her, Cassie snatched the wooden bat from under the counter and swung. Bottles exploded. Glass rained. Moonshine and whiskey spilled across the floor, sharp fumes rising as it soaked the wood.

The crowd erupted in shouts and laughter, bodies shifting back in shock.

“Nash!” Cassie yelled. “Where the hell are you?”

She swung again. Harder. More glass shattered.

“Nash!” she screamed, scrambling onto the bar, chest heaving. “You better get your ass out here!”

“Bitch, you best put that bat down!” someone shouted back.

Cassie scanned the room. Strangers in leather, faces blurred by tension. No one moved. No one stepped in.

“Nathanial Winslow Walker!” she screamed, voice cracking. “Get your goddamn ass out here!”

The silence that followed was jarring—broken only by nervous chuckles and the sense of several dozen sets of eyes pinning her in place.

And then—

“Well, hey there, Strawberry. Long time no see.”

The slow-drawled steel, the crowd parting as he strode forward. Older, broader, harder; he’d let his hair grow long; a full beard now swallowed his jaw. And as his dark eyes locked on hers, something inside her ruptured.

“What happened?” she shouted, leaping down from the bar, rushing him.

“What the fuck happened?”