Page 62 of The Bastard's Lily
Wren’s already thumbing a message, face tight.
The room vibrates with low curses and the scrape of chairs as brothers move. Engines roar to life outside, the deep rumble of Harleys carrying through the floorboards.
I stay planted, fists clenched, the burner phone still glowing on the scarred wood. Whoever left that picture thinks we’ll just chase shadows. Not a chance.
The gavel hits the table a final time. “Move,” Ash orders, and the room explodes into motion—chairs scraping, boots pounding, engines already rumbling outside.
I don’t wait for the chatter. I’m out the chapel door before the echo fades, the burner phone heavy in my pocket and a single name pounding in my head. The kitchen smells of sugar and cinnamon when I step in. Calla and Beau stand at the counter, hands dusted in flour, with a tray of cookies already cooling. The sight cuts through the haze for half a heartbeat.
Calla looks up, eyes fierce but calm. “Everything set?”
“For now.” I lean in and brush a quick kiss to her temple. Then I crouch to Beau’s level and press another to the top of his head. “You two stay right here, okay? You’re safe in this house.”
Beau grins, oblivious to the storm outside. “We’re making fox cookies!”
“Save me one,” I say, forcing a small smile.
Calla studies my face like she knows what I’m about to do. “Rook…”
“I’ve got things to handle,” I tell her quietly. “Stay here. Promise me.”
She nods once, lips pressed tight. I head for the back hall, the noise of the club fading behind me as the roar in my chest takes over. It doesn’t take long to find him.
The prospect is out by the service lot, pretending to check a bike he’s never ridden. He doesn’t even look up before my shadow covers the pavement. I don’t ask a single question.
My fist connects with his jaw, a crack that echoes off the corrugated walls. He stumbles, but I’m already on him—left, right, a knee to the ribs, the sharp taste of blood in the air. He tries to cover up, but I break through, each punch landing with the weight of every threat, every fear. By the time he collapses to his knees, his face is a swollen mask of red.
I grab his collar, drag him up close enough that he can feel every word against his ear. “I told you,” I growl, breath hot and steady. “You touch my blood, I take yours.”
The prospect sags in my grip, breath hitching, blood slick on his lip. I hold him there another beat, letting the silence drag until his eyes finally meet mine.
“You even think about running to the Scorpions again,” I whisper, “and I won’t stop at a warning.”
He nods, frantic, but I don’t believe a damn word of it. I shove him back against the wall, hard enough to rattle the siding.
“You’re done here,” I say flatly. “Patch or no patch, you’re finished.”
Bootsteps crunch on the gravel behind me. Ridge’s voice cuts through the heavy air. “Enough, Rook.”
I let go, the prospect sliding to the ground, gasping.
Ridge steps closer, eyes flicking from the kid to me. “Ash wants him in the cage till we decide what to do.”
I wipe the blood from my knuckles on my jeans, never taking my eyes off the prospect. “Then drag him there. And keep him where I can find him.”
Ridge jerks his chin at the two brothers who appear from the shadows. They haul the prospect up by his arms, none too gently. He winces but doesn’t fight, eyes darting anywhere but at me. I light a cigarette with hands that still tremble, watching until they disappear toward the clubhouse.
The smoke burns hot in my lungs, but it doesn’t put out the fire in my chest. Whoever sent that picture isn’t finished. And neither am I. The clubhouse hums with low voices and the faint thrum of bikes outside, but the storm in my chest starts to ease the second I step through the door.
Grimm’s posted at the bar, a stack of coloring pages spread out in front of him. Beau sits beside him, tongue caught between his teeth as he shades in a crooked fox. Grimm winks when he catches my eye, and Beau flashes me a quick grin before diving back into the crayons.
I leave them to it and head down the hall. My room smells like fresh sheets and cedar. Calla is there, smoothing the quilt, her back to me. The simple sight of her—calm, steady—hits harder than any punch I threw outside.
She turns when she hears the door. “Hey.”
Before she can say more, I cross the room and wrap my arms around her from behind, pulling her in until her spine rests against my chest.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur into her hair. “For last night. For all of it.”
