Page 6 of The Bastard's Lily
The bell rings. I don’t wait. I launch. No names. No rules. Just blood and the promise of a blackout. The guy’s taller, broader. But he’s slow. And I’m not here to dance—I’m here to break.
My fist connects with his cheekbone. Crunch. Good. His head snaps to the side, blood already flying like spatter paint on the red-lit walls. He comes back with a wild swing. I let it land. Needtofeelit. My jaw snaps sideways. Pain flashes white-hot and holy. I spit iron and grin.
“You hit like a fuckin’ preacher.”
That pisses him off. Good. He charges. Tries to tackle. I twist, hook an arm under his ribs, and slam him into the cage wall hard enough to rattle bones. He wheezes. I hit him again. And again. And again.
Calla. No. Don’t think. Don’t you fucking—
Fist to the ribs. My ribs. Something cracks. Can’t tell if it’s the cage or me. I swing wildly and catch him in the jaw, but he doesn’t go down. I don’t either. We’re locked now. Bloody. Sweaty. Teeth bared like wolves.
Muscle memory kicks in. Left. Right. Elbow to the neck. My knuckles split open, blood pouring down my wrist. I grab him by the hair and slam his skull into my knee. Once. Twice. He goes limp for a second. Then throws a desperate uppercut that clips my chin and sends me stumbling back.
I see stars. I seeher.
The crowd’s screaming now. Stomping. Chanting. Begging for blood. He rushes me. I duck. Lift. Slam. The concrete shudders when I drive him down. Then, I straddle him and rain hell. No more technique. No more tactics. Just rage. Raw and rabid. I don’t stop until someone grabs me. Two someones. A third. Arms locked around mine. Voices shouting. Sirens in my skull.
“Rook—enough!”
I blink. Blood on my fists. My chest heaving. Jaw locked. The guy’s unconscious. Maybe worse. The world tilts. The red lights pulse like a heartbeat. And still—still—she’s in my head. That pretty face. That fuckingghost.
“Rook—enough!”
I don’t hear it at first. Not over the rush in my ears. Not over the thud of bone on flesh. Not over the way my heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to escape me. My fist drives down again. Then again. And again. The guy’s face is pulp. My knuckles split wide. I don’t stop.
Not until I feel him. Cold hands. Unshakable. Steel and sinew. A voice close to my ear. Quiet, but final.
“Get off. Now.”
I freeze. Not because I want to. Because that voice? That voiceends things.Grimm. Deacon fucking Holt. The club’s ghost. The reaper with tally marks inked into his goddamn bones. He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t throw punches unless it’s the last one someone’ll ever take.
I look up, panting like an animal. His eyes are void. Still. Watching me like I’m some mangled thing he’s got to decide whether to bury or clean up after. The guy beneath me isn’t moving. The crowd’s gone quiet. Someone’s bleeding. I think it’s me.
“You done?” Grimm asks. Calm as hell.
I don’t answer. My jaw clenches so hard my teeth grind.
“Didn’t ask for a fucking essay,” he mutters, motioning with his chin toward the exit. “Walk it off. Before I make you.”
I spit blood onto the mat and stumble to my feet. My whole body shakes. From rage. From whatever the fuck just got knocked loose in me. Grimm doesn’t touch me again. Doesn’t need to. I walk. Because he told me to. Because if I don’t, I might kill someone. Because Calla-fucking-Lily’s ghost is still clawing at my ribs, and I’ve got nowhere else to bleed it out but the dark.
I don’t talk to anyone on the way out. Not the prospect hosing off the blood. Not the old heads playing cards by the chapel window. Not even Jinx, who watches me with that twitch in his jaw like he wants to say something but knows better. My boots echo down the main hall. Hardwood creaks under each step. Familiar. Fucked up. The club’s heartbeat. Cigarette smoke. Lemon oil. Old blood.
Everyone's got a room here—even the ones who’ve built cabins or parked their trailers out past the fence line. But this room? This one’s mine. Always has been. I push the door open. Same sheets. Same dent in the wall from the time I lost it after Calla left. Same scent—leather, cedar, and iron.
I sit on the edge of the bed, hands still slick, split knuckles raw. My forearms shake with aftershocks. It’s not about the fight. It’s not even about the guy.
It’sher.Calla-fucking-Lily. Preacher’s daughter. Club’s wild little tagalong. The girl I wasn’t supposed to touch. The girl Idid.
She’s everywhere in this goddamn place. In the hall where she used to sneak stolen peaches into my pockets. In the driveway where she used to scream on the back of my bike, arms too tight, laughter too loud. In the tattoo over my heart no one’s ever seen.
She’s not here. Sheshouldn’tbe here. But ghosts don’t need doors. They come and go as they please. And mine? She never left.
I don’t remember pulling off my boots. Don’t remember the sound they made hitting the floor or the way my spine cracked when I leaned back against the mattress. I just remember her name.
It carves itself into the backs of my eyes, into the spaces behind my ribs, into the beat of the blood I can't seem to slow down. Calla. Calla Lily. The ghost I never buried. The girl I might see again.
And if it’s her? If she’sback? God help the motherfucker who brought her here.
