Page 71 of The Bastard's Lily
I give her one last squeeze, the scent of her hair grounding me for the fight ahead. “I’ll be back. Nothing keeps me from you.”
Then I break away and head for the door, the rising roar of engines swallowing everything behind me. The night air hits likea punch of cold steel when I shove through the door. Engines rumble in the dark yard, headlights cutting sharp spears across the gravel. Brothers swing legs over chrome and steel, the scent of gas and rain-soaked dirt riding the wind.
I stride to my bike, the familiar weight of the kutte settling heavy on my shoulders. Grimm falls in beside me, visor already down, eyes all business.
Kickstands snap up in unison. My engine growls awake, a sound that vibrates through bone and blood. One glance back, Calla standing at the edge of the lot with Beau balanced on her hip, both of them small and fierce under the floodlights, and I give the throttle a twist.
Ash gives a sharp nod and rolls out first, his bike swallowing the dark like a bullet. Ridge falls in just off his back tire, steady and silent, the club’s second heartbeat. Boar takes the left flank, Frost sliding to the right, the two of them a wall of muscle and chrome guarding the line. Wren tucks in behind Frost, the glow of his dash throwing quicksilver light across the road. Vice slides next, low and sure, the numbers man riding like he’s calculating every curve. Grimm drops in after them, black helmet a shadow against the stars, our hammer if anything breaks loose.
I hang back where I belong—tail gunner. The last set of eyes. The one who makes sure no Bastard gets left behind.
The pack rolls out. Gravel spits behind us as we tear through Berlin’s back roads, the mountains rising black and endlessahead. The night swallows us whole, engines echoing off granite and pine while the road climbs higher and the air grows thin.
The night air cuts colder the higher we climb. Pines crowd the edges of the road, and the moon hides behind ragged clouds. I keep the throttle steady, mirrors full of brothers, and the road a ribbon of black fire ahead.
Whatever waits at the top, I’m ready to hunt.
The mountain road narrows to a single black ribbon, gravel hissing under our tires. Ash raises a gloved fist, and we roll back on the throttle, the pack stretching into a slow, deliberate crawl. Ridge pulls up alongside him, eyes flicking to the tree line. No words, just that silent signal every Bastard knows:something’s off.
I ease back a few yards, mirrors full of my brothers. Frost drifts to the shoulder, scanning. Boar rides tight to Ash’s six, his profile carved out by the moonlight. Grimm edges closer to me, visor down but posture ready.
The night feels heavy, like it’s waiting to break. My mind snaps to the whispers Calla brought home—Route 3. old logging road. Montreal boys. Berlin crew won’t see it coming.
Up ahead, the ridge looms. Clouds swallow the moon. The air tastes like copper and pine. Ash signals right, and we turn onto the cut road, engines echoing off the rock face. It’s too quiet. No crickets. No wind. Just the thrum of our bikes and the pounding of my pulse.
Then the world cracks open. Gunfire spits from the trees—hard pops, muzzle flashes strobing the dark. Ash drops low, Ridge swerves left. I see Boar jerk as a round sparks off his bars. I don’t think. I gun forward, throwing the bike sideways as a shadow lunges from the brush.
The shot comes like lightning. Pain tears through my side, a white-hot punch just under the ribs. I slam into Boar, taking him down with me, using my body to cover his. More gunfire. Shouts in French and English. The night explodes in chaos.
I grit my teeth and drag the bike upright, pain lancing hot through my ribs. Boar’s shouting something—can’t hear it over the ringing in my head. Doesn’t matter. We need out.
Ash signals with a hard chop of his arm, and the pack pivots as one. Engines scream to life, gravel spitting like gunfire as we tear back down the mountain. I stay on my own bike, no way I’m leaving it, no way I’m leaving them. Every bump is a blade, each breath a furnace. The road blurs, black and silver under the dying moon, but I keep the throttle wide open, eyes fixed on the red taillights ahead.
Ridge and Grimm flank me tighter than usual, boxing me in like they already know. Good. Let ’em try. I’m not falling. Theclubhouse lights finally cut through the trees, a ragged glow that feels like salvation. We rip through the gates and skid to a stop, engines howling down to a growl.
Ash is off his bike first, barking orders for lockdown, but the sound fades under the rush of blood in my ears. My boots hit the ground, and the world tilts. Someone grabs the bars before the Harley tips. Grimm, maybe. Doesn’t matter.
I make it three steps before Calla bursts through the door. Her eyes go wide—shock, fury, fear all tangled. She’s on me in a heartbeat, hands slick with my blood before I can warn her.
“You don’t get to die on me, Rook,” she says, voice breaking as she presses a towel to my side. “Not now. Not when I’ve finally found you again.”
I cup her face with a shaking hand, smear her cheek with red, and kiss her like a vow—rough, desperate, alive.
I hold her gaze, ribs on fire, and breathe her in. “As long as you’re here,” I rasp, “I’m not going anywhere.”
Calla’s grip is iron as she hauls me toward the med room, the thud of boots and the stink of blood trailing behind us. The hallway tilts and snaps back into place, every step a knife to the ribs.
“Clear the table!” she shouts, voice sharp enough to cut through the roar of engines and the low curse of wounded men. “Grimm, first-aid kits. Ash, I need light in here. Now.”
The room floods with harsh fluorescents. Someone drags a stack of boxes aside; another brother sweeps a scarred tabletop clean with one shove of his arm. The smell of antiseptic mixes with oil and copper.
“Boar—how bad?” she barks.
“Graze on the shoulder. Rook took the brunt for me. Nothing I can’t handle,” he grunts, already pulling his cut off so she can check. Blood streaks his sleeve, but his eyes stay on me.
Two riders from the Montreal chapter crowd the doorway, faces tight, scanning the hall for more threats. Behind them, a pair from Northern Ontario haul in Frost, who’s limping but cursing loud enough to prove he’s breathing.
Calla pivots like she’s been running triage her whole life. “Ridge, keep them moving. Anybody not bleeding waits outside. Wren, get me hot water and a clean towel. Grimm, don’t just stand there—gloves. Now!”
