Page 9 of The Bastard's Lily
I press the gauze a little too hard, and he hisses through his teeth. I mumble an apology.
“She have a name?” I ask, quiet.
He looks at me for a long moment. Then he shrugs. “Nah. Doesn’t matter now. Ghosts ain’t real.”
But before the guard returns, he leans in, voice like gravel wrapped in velvet. “Still. If I were you, I’d be careful. Berlin remembers the ones who don’t stay buried.”
And then he’s gone again, leaving the scents of bleach, blood, and old warnings in the air. I sit there for a long time after he leaves, the gauze still in my hand, my fingertips sticky. My stomach turns. Not from the blood. From the truth he left behind.
Berlin remembers the ones who don’t stay buried.And I’m back, aren’t I? Unburied. Unforgiven. I should’ve never come back. My chest tightens, and I press a palm to it like I can quiet the ache. It doesn’t help.
Rook. His name lives in the space between every breath I take in this town. I hate it. I hate that after all these years, it still echoes, still owns parts of me I swore I buried right alongside my old life. I loved him. God, I loved him. We were stupid and young and wild. And I thought that would be enough.
It wasn’t.
He never came for me. Not once. Not when my mother dragged me out of Berlin like I was something broken and shameful. Not when I was locked in that sterile cage of a house two states away without a phone, without a window that opened, without anyone. She said I embarrassed the family. She said the club ruined me. But the truth is—she was scared. Scared that if I had a way to reach him, I would’ve found a way back.
And she was right. I wrote him letters. Every week. Poured my heart onto page after page. Told him I was sorry. Told him I loved him. Told him there was more than just me now. That he was going to be a father. I sent them all, even though I never knew if they’d make it past her.
They didn’t. No phone. No visits. No reply. Nothing. So I believed the only thing I could: that he didn’t want me. That he didn’t care. And still… I miss him like hell.
I miss the roar of bikes on back roads, the way the club welcomed me like I belonged. I miss the fire in his eyes, the way he touched me like I was sacred. I miss being loved like I was worth the wreckage. But maybe that was just the lie I told myself to survive it. Because if hedidcare? If hehadlooked for me? If heknewabout Beau all this time and still stayed gone? Then that’s so much worse. That’s unforgivable.
But that was then. I blink and shake it off, sucking in a sharp breath as the silence in the room closes in around me again. I’m not sixteen anymore. I’m not some wide-eyed girl writing love letters like they’re lifelines. I’m a woman now. A mother. Beau is all I have. Beau is all Ineed. He’s the reason I survived that house. The reason I kept breathing when everything else in mewanted to stop. When I felt like a ghost—my body there, my soul hollowed out—he was the flicker of light in all that dark.
I won’t let anyone take that from me again. Not my mother. Not Berlin. Not Rook. I don’t have time for heartbreak, or memories, or what-ifs. Love is a luxury for girls who get to choose. I don’t. I haven’t for a long time.
This town is just a pit stop. A detour. Temporary. It’s close enough to get back on my feet but far enough that no one asks too many questions. I can work. I can save. I can get out.
I’ll find a better job. A higher-paying one. And when I do, we’ll be gone. Somewhere safer. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere I can give Beau the life he deserves. But for now, Berlin is the devil I know.
I stand up, stretching the tension from my limbs as I head for the bathroom. The mirror greets me with tired eyes and a ponytail that’s half-escaped its tie. I splash cold water on my face, watching as the girl in the glass slowly shifts back into someone I recognize.
Calla Lily Hale. Mother. Survivor. Nobody’s fool. Whatever Berlin has waiting for me, I’ll handle it. I always do.
FLASHBACK:
Rook,Age17
BehindSt. Jude’s Church. Berlin, NH.
She’s not supposed to be out here. Calla Blake. Preacher’s daughter. Too damn young and too damn perfect to be hiding behind the church like she’s looking to get corrupted.
But here she is—sunlight catching the copper in her hair, white dress brushing against her knees, a wild look in her eyes. And here I am, leaning against the wall like I’m not two seconds from burning in hell for even looking at her.
“You gonna keep staring, little flower?” I ask, pretending like I’m cool. Like my heart isn’t trying to punch through my ribs.
She doesn’t flinch. Just tilts that stubborn little chin up at me. “Iwasn’t.”
“You were.”
That mouth. Sharp as sin. Sweet as sugar. I’ve wanted to kiss her since I was fifteen and she patched me up right outside this very same church.
She takes a step closer, trying to sound brave. “Maybe I was just making sure you weren’t stealing from the collection plate.”
I laugh. She’s quick like that, always has been. “If I was gonna steal something, it wouldn’t be spare change.”
I watch her pulse flutter at her neck. She’s nervous. She should be. But she’s not backing away. I step forward. Close enough to smell her—sun-warmed skin and summer berries. She’s everything soft in a world that’s always been hard.
