Page 20 of The Bastard's Lily
Ash turns like he’s done, but then pauses, glancing back over his shoulder. “She stays. Both of ’em,” he says, voice clipped.
Calla jerks like she’s been slapped. “Excuse me?”
Ash spins, steps toward her, slow and deliberate. “You heard me.”
“I can’t stay here,” she snaps. “This isn’t—this isn’t safe. I didn’t come here to—”
“You think I give a fuck why you came?” Ash says, voice low but sharp. “Trees are down, power lines too. Half the streets are flooded, and the highway’s already shut. You’re not goin’ anywhere tonight, sweetheart—and I’m not lettin’ a kid freeze in a rental with no heat or lights.”
She opens her mouth again, but he just lifts one brow. That’s it. No threats, no shouting—justthat look. And it works. Calla falls silent, lips pressed tight, chest still rising like she’s holding back a scream.
She drops her gaze first. “It’s Hale now, not Blake.”
Ash nods, satisfied, then turns to me.“She stays in your room,” he says flatly. “Kid too.”
My jaw tightens. “You sure?”
His stare pins me like a goddamn nail. “I don’t repeat myself.”
Then he’s gone, leaving the door swinging shut behind him and Calla breathing like she might hyperventilate. Ash walks off without another word, heavy boots echoing down the hall. Calla doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at me.
She’s still wrapped in that silence like armor, but I can feel the heat rolling off her, the kind that says she’s barely holding it together. I scrub a hand down my face and take a breath that doesn’t help.
Then I nod toward the door. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”
Her eyes snap to mine. Wide. Distrusting. Tired. But she doesn’t argue. Doesn’t thank me either. Just turns her back and starts down the hall toward the bar. And I stare at the floor like it’s got the answers to every bad decision I’ve ever made.
Iwakeinhisbed,heart pounding like I’ve been caught. The room is still—the kind of still that only happens after too much chaos. The storm outside has quieted, but the one inside me hasn’t.
Beau is warm beside me, his little face relaxed. His breath flutters against my shoulder, one tiny hand still curled in the fabric of Rook’s flannel. I shift carefully, trying not to wake him. The mattress is worn in the center, familiar in a way that makes my throat tighten. I used to sneak out of this room at midnight, through the window, over the balcony, into his arms. Now I’m waking up with my son in the bed and Rook asleep on the couch across the room.
He’s sprawled on his back, boots still on, arms folded over his chest like a corpse trying to play it cool. The soft amber light from the hallway slips through the cracked door, catching the edge of his jaw and the mess of ink down his arm. He looks toodamn peaceful for a man who said nothing when Ash told him I’d be staying here. For a man who gave up his bed without a word.
I swing my legs over the side, careful not to make a sound, and pad across the floor to the tiny bathroom. The same one I used to rush into to fix my makeup or sneak a shower before climbing into his lap. Everything’s smaller now. Or maybe I’m just more haunted. I flick on the light and stare at myself in the mirror above the sink. Same face. Same wild curls. Same haunted eyes.
But everything else has changed. The fluorescent light above the mirror flickers once, then steadies. I lean in, gripping the sides of the sink.
My face looks older now, sharper in the places that used to be soft. A mother’s face. A woman who has survived things no one in this damn clubhouse even knows about. But sometimes—like now—I see her. The girl I used to be.
Five Years Ago
The scent of him is still on my skin—cigarettes and cinnamon, sweat and lust.
“Fuck,” I whisper, dragging a brush through my tangled curls with one hand while holding my bra in the other.
Sunlight is spilling through the window now, sharp and golden and judgmental. I’d fallen asleep in his bed. Again. Pressed against him, bare and boneless after he worked me over inthe dark, his hand clamped over my mouth to keep the sounds quiet.
I twist in front of the mirror, trying to find the zipper of my dress, already half-panic, half-regret. “I told my mom I’d be at mass by eight. She’s gonna kill me.”
Rook’s voice comes from the bed, low and lazy and smug. “Pretty sure God saw what you were doing at two a.m.”
I glare at him over my shoulder. “He also saw me fake it last week.”
Rook just laughs, full-bodied and unbothered, like there isn’t a single thing in the world that can touch him. “Didn’t fake it last night though.”
“No,” I mutter, cheeks burning. “No, I didn’t.”
I snatch my boots from the floor, practically hopping into them while still tugging the hem of my dress down. My necklace, —a delicate cross, —catches in the fabric. I untangle it as I head for the door.
