Page 12 of The Bastard's Lily
The fire catches fast. Flames crawl up the curtains, licking the ceiling like a hungry dog. By the time I step back out onto the porch, the whole place is hissing and snapping like it’s alive. I don’t wait. Just turn and walk back down the gravel drive, smokecurling behind me, boots crunching in rhythm with the crackle of justice burning bright.
Behind me, the bastards start screaming. Too little, too late. I swing a leg over my bike as the fire finds something explosive—maybe the stash, maybe just karma—and the trailer shudders in a violent boom. One of them wails my name like I might come back. Like mercy is still on the table.
I light yet another cigarette. Smirk. Then I ride. Gravel spits behind me. The sky glows orange in the mirror. And I don’t look back, not once, on the knockoff cowards tied to a tree, branded by the flame for pissing on our name. By the time I hit the open road, the only thing louder than the engine is the roar in my chest.
Gravel spits as I swing the bike onto the road, tires chewing up the dirt like it owes me something. The night stretches wide and mean, sky bruised purple above the dark pines, moon hanging low like it’s watching. Like it knows.
Wind slaps against me, tugging at my kutte, pulling the stench of gasoline and scorched canvas into the open. My gloves are still slick with blood, some of it mine, most of it not. Doesn’t matter. The road hums under the tires, a low growl in my bones. It’s too quiet. The kind of quiet that sinks its teeth into the back of your skull and doesn’t let go.
I shift up. Throttle open. The engine snarls like a beast finally unchained.
It ain’t a long ride, but it feels like one. Every second stretches, thick with the echo of fists, boots, and begging. My pulse doesn’t slow. Not even when I see the gates up ahead—twin rusted iron arms, wide open like they were expecting me.
The Royal Bastards crest is burned into the wood sign above, carved deep, lit by the low hum of the floodlight. A warning. A welcome. Depends on who's coming through. I roll past without hesitation.
No guards out front tonight. Probably inside, drinking, pretending the world’s not as broken as we know it is. Gravel shifts under the tires as I cruise down the long dirt drive, the clubhouse rising out of the darkness like a monster with its belly lit—windows glowing soft yellow, music thumping low behind the walls.
I park just to the side and kill the engine. Silence falls like a hammer. The smell of smoke still clings to me. So does the rage. I take a breath. Just one. Then I swing off the bike, boots hitting the earth like a promise kept in blood.
The clubhouse door creaks open. Grimm steps out, cigarette already lit, a half-smirk cut across his weather-worn face. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches me walk up, smoke curling between them like it’s listening in.
“How’d it go?” he finally asks.
I roll my shoulders, jaw tight. “Like it needed to.”
Grimm nods once. Then holds something out between two fingers—a small, folded scrap of paper already creased and dirty, like it’s been burning a hole in his pocket all night.
“What’s this?” I mutter, taking it.
“Open it.”
I do. An address. Scribbled in Grimm’s tight, slanted handwriting. Now my pulse kicks.
I look up at him. “What the fuck is this?”
His eyes don’t move. “Go.”
I just stare at him. But he’s already looking past me, jaw working like he's chewing glass.
“How?” I ask, voice low.
He doesn’t even blink. Just mutters, “Don’t ask. Just go.”
I unfold the paper. An address. Simple. Plain. Like it doesn’t carry the weight of a name I’ve spent years trying not to say out loud.Calla.
I don’t know if it’s really her. Haven’t laid eyes on her since she vanished at sixteen with nothing but a wildfire in her wake. But lately… the whispers started. A new nurse at the prison. Sweetvoice. Sharp mouth. Brown hair. Too familiar. Too much like the girl I used to dream about with my fists clenched.
I told myself it wasn’t her. Couldn’t be. But now I’m looking at this fucking address, and something in me howls. It’s not her old place. Doesn’t ring any bells. Doesn’t matter. I know. Bone-deep. Gut-level. That kind of knowing that makes your hands shake even when you’re standing still.
Grimm says nothing more. I nod once, then turn. Swing my leg over the bike. It’s already warm, like it knew I’d be back on it before I did. The engine rumbles low beneath me, and I ride. The roads blur. I don’t notice the turns. Just the pounding in my chest and the name echoing in my skull. Calla. My Calla Lily. If it’s her…if she’s really back in Berlin…Everything’s about to burn.
I kill the engine at the top of the hill and let the silence settle in around me. The cabin sits low, tucked into the tree line like it doesn’t want to be seen. A sliver of smoke curls from the chimney, soft and slow. There’s a beat-up old truck parked crooked near the porch, but no other signs of life. No second vehicle. No lights.
Just her. I don’t even know if it’s her. Not really. But something in my chest’s already cracking open like it fucking knows. She’s down there. Has to be.
I stay on the bike for a while, helmet resting in my lap, eyes locked on the cabin. Like if I stare long enough, I’ll catch a glimpse of her shadow in the window. Like I’ll get some kind ofsign that this isn’t a mistake, that it’s not just another ghost in the shape of her.
Wind moves through the trees. Pine and cold. Dirt and rain. I don’t move. The address Grimm gave me is burned into the paper in my pocket, but I don’t need it anymore. I’ve already committed it to something deeper than memory.
