Page 53 of The Bastard's Lily
“Strip the kutte,” Boar orders.
I peel mine off and toss it onto an old folding chair. The kid fumbles with his vest, finally dropping it beside mine. Boar steps between us, massive arms crossed.
“You know the rules,” he says, voice flat as steel. “No weapons. No cheap shots. Bell rings, you fight till one of you can’t stand. You—” he nods at the kid—“learn some respect. You—” he pins me with a look—“don’t kill him.”
I roll my shoulders. “Not planning to.”
Boar pulls the rope that hangs from a rusted pipe. The old brass bell bolted to the wall gives a single, sharp clang. The prospect barely gets his hands up before I’m on him.
First hit—straight right to the chest—drives him back into the cinderblock. He grunts, scrambles sideways, and throws a wild jab that glances off my shoulder. I move in again, fists finding ribs, the thud of flesh against flesh echoing in the hollow room. He swings desperately, catching my jaw just enough to sting. I taste iron and smile.
The kid’s breathing hard already. Fear rolling off him in waves. Good. I feint left, then bury a hook in his gut. Air rushes out of him with a wheeze. He staggers, tries to clinch, but I shove him off, every strike a lesson. Boar stays silent, a dark mountain at the edge of the ring, eyes flat and unblinking as the bell’s echo fades into the sound of fists and heavy breaths.
The kid’s already wobbling, sweat and blood streaking down his cheek. I give him a second to catch his breath, just enough rope to prove a point.
He spits red onto the floor and glares up at me. “No wonder the Scorpions are sniffing around,” he pants. “All it’d take is that sweet little old lady of yours and—”
The rest of the sentence never makes it out. Something snaps. The world narrows to a white-hot roar. I slam him back into the cinderblock wall, fists flying—ribs, jaw, gut—every punch a warning he’s too stupid to hear. He tries to cover up, but I break through, driving him to the floor.
“Don’t. Ever. Say. Her. Name.” Each word comes with another hit, knuckles slick, heartbeat pounding like a war drum.
“Rook!” Boar’s voice booms across the boiler room, but I barely register it. The kid’s eyes are wide now, fear finally cutting through the bravado.
“Enough!” A massive arm hooks around my chest and hauls me backward like I weigh nothing. My boots drag across the concrete, fists still swinging at the air. “Stand down!” Boar growls in my ear. “You made your point.”
I’m breathing hard, vision edged in red. The prospect curls on the floor, groaning, blood seeping from a split lip and a fresh cut above his eye.
Boar shoves me toward the far wall, planting himself between us. “Rules are rules, brother. He crossed a line, but you don’t get to finish him.”
I flex my hands, knuckles raw and throbbing, the need to keep hitting still burning through my veins. But Calla’s face cuts through the haze—her laugh, Beau’s smile—and I force a step back.
Boar studies me, eyes like cold steel. “You done?”
I drag in a breath, chest heaving. “Yeah,” I rasp, even if every part of me still wants to tear the kid apart.
Boar gives a short nod. “Then it’s over. Prospect learned today. And so did you.”
Boar keeps a hand planted against my chest, a wall of muscle and authority. The kid stays crumpled on the floor, coughing through split lips, eyes wide and glassy. I take a slow step forward anyway, just enough for him to feel the heat of it. My spit lands in the dust a breath from his boots.
“Listen close,” I growl, voice low and razor sharp. “You ever let my woman’s name cross your mouth again—ever breathe a word about my kid—there won’t be a patch, a brother, or a grave deep enough to hide you from me.”
The prospect swallows hard, blood and fear mixing in his throat.
“You think today hurt?” I lean in, my shadow swallowing his. “That was a warning. Next time, you won’t get one.”
Boar’s grip tightens, but he doesn’t pull me back. He just lets the words hang in the damp air like smoke. I take one last hard look at the kid, enough to make sure it’s burned into his skull, then turn for the stairs. My knuckles throb, heart still hammers, but the message is delivered.
Calla. Beau. Untouchable.
The boiler-room door slams behind me, the sound echoing up the concrete stairwell. Cool daylight hits like a slap when I step outside. I dig a cigarette from my kutte pocket, strike a match, and draw in a long drag until the smoke steadies the pulse still thudding in my ears.
Boots scrape across the gravel. Boar follows, the door clicking shut behind him. He plants those massive shoulders against the wall, arms crossed, eyes on the yard.
“What the hell was that about?” His voice is low, but it carries.
I exhale a slow stream of smoke. “That kid’s had my woman’s name in his mouth three times now. Subtle digs. Little jabs when he thinks I’m out of earshot. Something’s off.”
Boar grunts, gaze narrowing. “Three times?”
