Page 65 of The Bastard's Lily
“Occupational hazard,” he says, grin curling as the antiseptic hits. “Don’t worry about it, nurse.”
Before I can respond, the door buzzes again. Another inmate slips in—a thick-shouldered man with a jagged scar across his scalp. He doesn’t bother with the pretense of needing treatment. He just drifts to the far corner, posture casual but eyes sharp.
Lucien leans closer to the scarred man, his voice a low rasp I can just barely catch over the buzz of the fluorescent lights.
“…shipment moves tonight… two miles past the border cut, old logging road off Route 3…”
The other man nods, eyes flicking toward the door. “Montreal boys’ll meet ’em at the ridge. Said the Bastard’s won’t see it coming.”
My pulse spikes. Route 3. The cut road. That’s practically the Bastards’ backyard.
Lucien wipes at the blood on his cheek, unfazed. “Tell Calder the distraction worked. Berlin’s chasing ghosts.”
Calder. The name hits like a gunshot—Rook mentioned it after the run that went sideways. A traitor in the wind.
I keep my hands steady, pretending to focus on the gauze, but my mind is already racing. Route 3 logging road. Montreal tie-in. Calder. Face neutral, but every sense screams that I’m standing in the middle of a storm about to break wide open.
Lucien swivels on the stool, a slow grin spreading across his face—slick and wrong.
“Pretty nurse like you shouldn’t be stuck in a place like this,” he says, voice oily. “Bet you taste sweeter than these walls.”
My stomach tightens, but I keep my hands steady, gauze pressed to his cheek. “Sit back,” I warn, flat and cold.
He starts to rise anyway, taking a step toward me. The door buzzes open before I have to move. Three men stride in—a guard first, hand on his baton, and behind him the older inmate from my first week here. Broad, gray in the beard, eyes like stone. Two others flank him, silent and watchful. Lucien freezes mid-step.
The older man studies the room and then says, voice deep enough to vibrate the walls. “Spa day’s over, Vore. Time to crawl back into your hole.”
Lucien’s smirk falters. The second man with him mutters something under his breath, and just like that, the tension shifts.
“Enjoy your stitches,” the old man adds, still smiling, “while you’ve got teeth to chew with.”
Lucien’s jaw tightens. Without another word, he and his buddy walk back toward the door. The guard doesn’t move to stop them; he just watches as they slip into the hall, and the door buzzes shut behind them.
The old man turns to me then, lowering himself onto the chair Lucien just vacated. “Morning, nurse,” he says evenly, like we’re starting an ordinary appointment. “He give you trouble?”
I shake my head, forcing my pulse to slow. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
His grin is small but knowing as he rolls up his sleeve, offering the arm that needs stitching.
He settles onto the chair with the easy weight of someone who’s seen every corner of this place. Up close, I catch the faint outline of a Royal Bastards patch tattooed just above his elbow—faded but unmistakable.
“Name’s Cole,” he says, then adds with a faint grin, “Most folks call me Granite. Berlin chapter. Been around a long time.”
The words hit like a quiet shield. A Royal Bastard. Rook’s world. My world now, whether I meant it or not.
Granite watches me for a moment, gray eyes softening. “Truth is, I knew you were Rook’s girl the first day you set foot in here,” he says. “Had a word with Grimm a few weeks back—he confirmed it. Couldn’t miss the way you two used to look at each other. Hell, I remember you sneakin’ kisses behind your daddy’s church when you were barely teenagers.”
A surprised laugh slips out before I can stop it. “You were around back then?”
“Always kept an eye on the Berlin crew,” he says, smile deepening. “And when Ash called this morning, filled me in on what’s stirring? I figured I’d plant myself right here. You’re safe, darlin’. No worries while I’m breathing.”
The knot in my chest loosens, just a fraction. For the first time all day, I let out a long breath, the sound lost beneath the steady buzz of the fluorescent lights.
The rest of my shift drags like a storm cloud that refuses to break. I clean cuts, hand out meds, and keep my ears open, but nothing tops what I’ve already heard.
Every so often, Granite passes by the bay on some excuse—moving laundry, checking a cart—always with a nod that saysI’m still here.Each time, the knot in my stomach eases just a little more.
By late afternoon, the intercom crackles with the final count. I peel off my gloves and scrub my hands until the scent of antiseptic gives way to the faint bite of soap. My muscles ache, but my mind hums with the intel I’m carrying:Route 3 logging road. Montreal connection. Calder.
