Page 61 of The Bastard's Lily
He takes one look at my face. “What happened?”
I drop the burner on his desk. The screen wakes, the photo glaring up at us. “Found it at the front gate.”
Ash studies it for a heartbeat, then his voice cuts like a blade. “Lock it down. Nobody in or out. Church in an hour.”
His order rolls through the building like a starting gun. Doors slam, brothers shout confirmations, the whole place shifting into high alert. When I make it back to the kitchen, the scene stops me cold.
Grimm is there with Beau perched easily on his hip, the kid’s fox dangling from one small hand. Beau’s giggling at something Grimm whispered, completely unaware of the storm outside these walls.
At the stove, Calla moves with quick, practiced efficiency—flipping bacon, sliding eggs onto a platter, hair tied back, every motion sharp and sure. Breakfast for a roomful of men who would bleed for her without a second thought.
The smell of frying butter cuts through the tension, but her posture tells me everything. Shoulders squared, jaw set, eyes hard as tempered steel. She’s angry. She’s ready. And whoever left that backpack photo has no idea what kind of war they justwoke. I lean against the doorway, watching her move—quick, precise, a storm wrapped in calm.
Wren strolls in from the back hall, still tugging on his kutte. He eyes the spread on the counter and lets out a low whistle. “Damn, Calla. You feeding the whole state or just us sorry bastards?”
She glances over her shoulder, a small, deceptively sweet smile tugging at her mouth. “I bake and cook when I’m mad.”
Wren smirks. “That explains the feast.”
Calla slides a pan off the burner, voice light but sharp enough to cut steel. “If my hands are busy with cooking or kneading dough, then they’re not wrapped around somebody’s throat—or the trigger of my gun.”
The room goes quiet for a beat. Even Grimm, still holding Beau, raises his brows. I can’t help the dark curl of pride that slips through my chest. That’s my girl—soft smile, lethal core.
Wren chuckles, holding up both hands. “Noted, darlin’. I’ll just grab a plate and stay on your good side.”
Calla’s grin doesn’t fade as she turns back to the stove, the scent of bacon and smoke wrapping around her like a warning. The smell of bacon and strong coffee fills the kitchen until even the tension seems to thin. Plates scrape, mugs clink. Brothers drift in one by one—Boar, Ridge, Wren—each giving Calla a nod of respect before loading up.
Grimm settles Beau at the table beside him, keeping a steady hand on the kid’s shoulder while he digs into eggs and toast. Beau chatters about the fox and pancakes, oblivious to the way every man in the room keeps an eye on the doors.
I eat standing, back to the wall, watching them all. Calla moves through the crowd with quiet purpose—refilling mugs, sliding another skillet of eggs onto the counter—like feeding us is just another layer of defense.
When the last plate is cleared, Ash’s voice cuts through the low conversation. “Church. Five minutes.”
Chairs scrape back. Kuttes shrugged on. The easy noise fades to a low, focused silence. Calla meets my eyes as I head for the chapel door, Beau’s small hand tucked in hers. There’s a fire there—steady, unshaken—that tells me she’s as ready for this fight as any of us.
We file toward the meeting room, boots thudding against old wood, the weight of what waits inside pressing down with every step.
Ash slams the gavel once, the crack echoing off the paneled walls. “Church is in. Rook—give the table everything, from yesterday and this morning.”
I stand, the burner phone cold in my fist. “Yesterday, I told Ash what Grimm and I suspected about the new prospect—how he’s been running his mouth and how the tire tracks at Calla’s place matched his bike. That hasn’t changed.”
I lay the phone on the scarred wood and wake the screen. The photo glows in the dim light. “But this was waiting at the gate this morning. No postage, no note. Just Beau’s backpack in the woods.”
A low, angry ripple moves around the table. Ridge curses under his breath; Wren’s jaw flexes tight.
Grimm leans forward, voice flat and certain. “That kid was out at Calla’s place during the storm. I saw the mud packed in his tread myself. And now this? That’s not coincidence.”
Boar pounds a fist once on the table. “He’s not even in this room to answer for it.”
Ash’s gaze sweeps the brothers, hard and measured. “Prospects don’t set foot in church. But nobody leaves until we decide how we handle our own.”
The room goes silent except for the low hiss of the overhead lights, every man waiting for the next word, the weight of the morning settling heavy over the table.
Ash stays standing, hands braced on the table, eyes like cold iron. “Here’s what we’re doing,” he says, voice cutting through the room. He looks to Ridge first. “Get riders out. Sweep every back road, every trail, every spot a van or bike could hide between here and the school. Nobody rides alone—two-man minimum.”
Ridge nods once, already pulling out his phone.
Ash turns to Wren. “Ping the Northern Ontario and Montreal chapters. Tell ’em we may need extra eyes on the border. Ask for standby help, no details over the line.”
