Page 49 of The Bastard's Lily
Water hits my skin hot and sharp, washing the dirt and gunpowder away. Calla steps in behind me, fully focused, a clean cloth in hand. She works methodically, gentle but firm, wiping every streak of dried blood from my back, my arms, the shallow scrape on my ribs. Her touch isn’t shy—it’s careful, precise, like she’s scrubbing the night off me piece by piece.
I close my eyes, letting the sound of water and her quiet breathing drown out the chaos still ringing in my head.
“Better,” she says at last, fingertips lingering just long enough to tell me I’m home.
Yeah. Better.
Steam rolls off the walls, the spray pounding steadily against my shoulders. Calla works the cloth across my chest, rinsing away the last streaks of dried blood. Her hair sticks to her back in dark ribbons, skin slick and warm against mine. The closeness isn’t about heat; it’s about getting clean, about proving we both made it home.
I brace a hand on the tile and finally let the night spill out. “Run was supposed to be routine,” I say, voice low over the hiss of the water. “Deep woods meet. Instead—Scorpions. Full ambush. Burned their mark into a fence, like they wanted a damn invitation to war.”
Her hand stills on my ribs, but I keep going.
“Someone tipped them. There was a guy there I didn’t recognize at first—” I hesitate, jaw tight. “Name’s Calder. Big, shaved head, cobra tattoo on his neck. He—”
Calla snaps her head up, eyes sharp, pupils wide. “Stop.”
The single word cuts through the steam.
“You know him?” I ask.
She swallows hard, drops the cloth. “Yeah. From the prison. He’s Scorpions, Rook. Always has been. I see him visiting the prison all the time—runs their contraband routes, brags about it. Everyone knows whose side he’s on.”
My stomach goes cold. “No. He’s been working withusfor years. Patch-friendly. Ash trusted him enough to give him runs.”
Her face drains of color, steam curling between us like smoke from a fire. “If he’s wearing your colors on the outside and carrying theirs on the inside…”
I finish it for her, voice flat. “Then he’s been feeding the Scorpions everything. Routes, schedules—tonight’s run.”
The shower hisses, hot and relentless, while the betrayal settles like ice in my chest.
Calla turns the water off, but the roar of it still echoes in my head. I knot a towel around my waist and step into the hall, steam rolling past me like smoke from a fire we can’t quite put out.
From the laundry nook comes the steady clank of the dryer door. Calla’s bent over the basket, loading in my clean clothes with quick, efficient motions. The sight of her, barefoot, hair damp, taking care of things without a word—hits me harder than the ambush.
I thumb my phone awake and hit Ash’s number. He picks up on the first ring. “Talk to me.”
“It was Calder,” I say, voice low. “Confirmed. He’s been wearing friendly colors with us, but running with the Scorpions inside. Calla spotted him at the prison. This wasn’t random.”
A pause, then Ash exhales like a growl. “Knew that rat was too eager. Good work, brother.”
I glance toward Calla; she doesn’t turn, but I know she’s listening. “She’s the one who nailed it,” I add.
“Then tell her I said thank you,” Ash says, tone hard but warm underneath. “Lock it up and keep them safe. If anything feels off, you bring them both to the clubhouse. Door’s open.”
“Copy.”
We hang up. The dryer door shuts with a dull thud. Calla straightens, eyes meeting mine across the narrow hall. I let the phone drop to my side, towel still dripping onto the hardwood.
“Ash says thank you,” I tell her. “And we stay locked down. If anything smells wrong, we head straight to the clubhouse.”
She nods once, calm but fierce, like she’s been expecting this all along.
Calla crosses the small hallway, a folded bundle balanced in her arms. Damp hair clings to her shoulders, smelling faintly of her shampoo and wood smoke.
“Here,” she says, pressing the clothes into my chest.
It’s one of my old black tees—soft and a little faded from a hundred rides—and my boxers from this morning.
