Page 18 of The Bastard's Lily
She laughs. Bitter. Broken. “Of course he did. ThePreachernever wanted me to have anything that wasn’t built in his image.”
Silence falls like a bomb between us. I don’t know what to believe. My heart’s pounding out of rhythm. My hands are shaking, fingers curling into fists at my sides.
“I waited,” she says. “I waited for you to come. And you never did.”
My breathing’s ragged. Jaw locked so tight it feels like it might snap. I can’t stop staring at her like she’s something holy and fucked all at once.
“I missed everything, Calla.” My voice cracks, but I don’t care. “His first word. His first steps. First fuckin’ tooth. All of it.”
She straightens like someone lit her spine with steel. “Yeah. You did.”
That hurts more than it should.
Her chin lifts, and she throws it like a punch. “And don’t you dare pin that on me,” she bites. “I begged the goddamn universe to let you find us. I stayed alive for him. You wanna be pissed? Fine. But don’t act like I stole him from you. I survived for him.”
I take one step forward. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t back down. Not anymore. She stands like she’s got fire in her veins and hell in her eyes.
“You think I don’t know what surviving looks like?” I snarl. “You think I didn’t die a little every fuckin’ day not knowing where the hell you were? And now you’re back, and there’s a kid—and he’s mine—and I’m just supposed to what? Shake your hand and saywelcome home?”
Her laugh is sharp, bitter. “You don’t get to welcome me anywhere. This was my hell, not yours.”
She’s shaking. I’m shaking.
Her voice breaks. “I was sixteen. Sixteen, Rook. Locked away by my own parents when they found out I was pregnant. Stripped of everything. I gave birth alone. No one held my hand. No one fucking stayed. I was a baby having a baby! And all I could do was keep him safe.”
My stomach lurches. Guilt claws through my ribs like a goddamn beast. I don’t think. I move. I lunge. My hand wraps around her throat—not tight. Just enough. Just to hold her there. Just to feel her. Just to make sure she’s real. She gasps, lips parted—then I crash into her.
Our mouths collide in a bruising, breathless kiss. It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s rage. Regret. Five years of agony crashing down like a fuckin’ storm. She moans, and I lose my mind. Her fingers twist in my kutte, yanking me closer. My hand slips downher spine, anchoring her. She bites my lip hard enough to draw blood.
I growl. I lift her up, my hands gripping her thighs as I set her on the desk. Papers scatter; a stapler crashes to the floor. I don't care. Nothing matters but her.
Calla wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me against her. Her jeans are soaked through from the downpour outside, cold and wet against my hands, but her skin beneath is burning hot. Her hair drips rainwater down her neck, trails disappearing beneath her collar.
"Five years," I growl against her mouth. "Five fucking years thinking you were dead."
She claws at my shoulders, her fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks. "I thought about you every day. Every single day."
The desk creaks beneath us. I push between her thighs, pressing her back until she's half-lying across the surface. A picture frame topples. Her breath catches when I drag my lips down her throat, tasting rain and salt.
"I hate you," she whispers, but her hands are in my hair, holding me closer.
"I know." My voice is wrecked. "I hate me too."
I tear at her clothes, blind with need, with years of phantom pain finally finding its target. Her shirt rips under my hands, buttons skittering across the floor. She doesn't seem to care, already working at my belt, yanking it free with a hiss of leather.
"Fuck you," she pants against my mouth, but her hands tell a different story, desperate and greedy on my skin.
"Yeah," I breathe, shoving her jeans down her hips. "Fuck me."
There's no finesse to it, no gentle exploration. We collide like we're trying to hurt each other, like maybe pain is the only language we have left. Her nails rake down my back, leaving fire in their wake. I bite her shoulder, tasting salt and rain and time.
The desk rattles beneath us as I thrust into her. She cries out, head thrown back, throat exposed. I wrap my hand around it again, feeling her pulse hammer against my palm.
"Look at me," I demand, voice raw. "Look at me, Calla."
Her eyes snap to mine, defiant even now. The hate there is real, but so is everything else—grief, relief, need.
Her eyes lock with mine as I thrust into her, rough and hard. No gentleness here, just pure need and fury colliding. She gasps, her head thrown back, exposing the pale column of her throat. I grip her hips tight enough to bruise, pulling her to the edge of the desk.
