Page 64 of The Bastard's Lily
“Looks that way, little man,” Grimm says, offering a fist bump that Beau happily returns.
I shake my head, still laughing, but the tension in my chest loosens a notch. “You never stop surprising me, Grimm.”
“That’s the goal,” he says with a wink. “Let’s get moving before the bell rings. Wouldn’t want to be late for my big debut as teacher’s aide.”
Rook gives Grimm a firm clap on the shoulder. “Appreciate you, brother.”
Grimm just grins wider. “Kid’s my buddy. Wouldn’t miss it.”
We push through the clubhouse doors and step into a morning that smells of exhaust and damp pine. The yard is alive with movement—more bikes than usual, chrome catching the early light. Men I don’t recognize stand beside their machines, the backs of their kuttes marked with Bastards patches. NorthernOntario and Montreal—silent proof that Ash’s calls went out and were answered.
A handful of riders nod to Rook as we pass. Ridge peels away from a small group to meet us halfway. “Local boys are posted near the school,” he says, voice low. “Couple more will stay on the property here.”
I glance around. The quiet efficiency is both unsettling and oddly comforting.
Ridge tips his chin toward the line of parked bikes. “Ash reached out to the inside, too. Some of our brothers in the prison will keep an eye on you during shift change. No one gets close without someone noticing.”
The weight of it settles over me—layers of protection I didn’t ask for but can’t quite resent.
Rook’s hand finds the small of my back, steady and warm. “Good,” he says simply, a quiet promise beneath the word.
Beau skips ahead toward the truck, Fox bouncing in his arms, oblivious to the quiet army gathering around him. I take a slow breath, the rumble of engines and the silent presence of so many Bastards a strange kind of shield. Today, we move forward—but we won’t be moving alone.
The ride to town feels different today—heavier somehow. Grimm follows close behind on his bike, a silent shadow in my side mirror while Rook drives my truck. Beau chatters from theback seat about show-and-tell and how “Uncle Grimm” is going to be the coolest helper ever.
When we pull up to the elementary school, a pair of patched riders are already parked near the curb, engines idling low. Their presence is quiet but unmistakable.
Beau hops out with his backpack and fox, grinning at the sight of Grimm swinging off his bike. “You ready, buddy?” Grimm asks.
“Yeah!” Beau bounces on his toes. “You really get to stay all day?”
Grimm gives him a wink. “Whole day. Your teacher and I already have a plan.”
I crouch to Beau’s level, brushing a crumb of flour from his hair. “Listen to your teacher. Be good for Grimm, okay?”
“I will, Mama.” He hugs me hard, then Rook, before slipping his hand into Grimm’s.
Rook crouches too, voice low. “You call me if anything feels off, got it?”
Beau nods solemnly and heads inside with Grimm, their figures disappearing into the bright hallway. Back in the truck, the silence feels bigger. Rook keeps his hand on my knee as we drive across town, the steady weight a wordless promise. The prison looms ahead, brick and razor wire cutting against the pale sky.My badge hangs heavy around my neck, but my resolve stays solid.
Rook pulls to the curb outside the staff entrance and kills the engine. “Text me every break,” he says quietly.
“I will.” I lean over and press a quick kiss to his jaw. “Grimm will bring Beau home after school?”
“Straight back to the clubhouse,” Rook confirms. “I’ll be there when you’re done.”
I nod, push the door open, and step into the cool morning air. The gates buzz and slide open, the familiar clang swallowing me as I head inside, the weight of the club’s protection at my back and the storm of the day waiting ahead.
The medical bay smells like bleach and metal, the kind of cold that clings to your skin. I start my shift the same as always—supplies restocked, counters wiped down—trying to ignore the knot in my stomach.
The door buzzes and swings open. Lucien Vore steps inside, tall and coiled, a fresh gash slashing across his cheekbone. Dried blood trails down to his jaw like war paint. Everyone knows his name—Scorpion muscle with a rap sheet that reads like a cartel manual.
“Sit,” I tell him, voice flat. “Pressure on the cut.”
He smirks but does as he’s told, lowering himself onto the metal chair. The guard posted by the door leans against the frame, eyes never leaving us.
I snap on gloves and tilt Lucien’s head toward the light. “What happened?”
