Page 72 of The Bastard's Lily
Orders snap through the air, and the Bastards obey without question.
She presses me onto the table, hands steady even as they’re slick with red. “Stay with me, Rook,” she says, low and fierce. “You’re not passing out on my watch.”
Ash leans in, jaw tight. “Everybody’s accounted for. No tails. We’ve got the perimeter locked.”
Calla doesn’t even glance up. “Good. Then let me work.”
Her fingers find the wound, sure and unshaking while the room swirls with brothers coming and going—boots on concrete, the hiss of water, the rasp of torn fabric. For a second, it feels like a war zone. For a second, I believe she really could hold the whole damn club together with nothing but her hands and that voice.
I grit my teeth against the sting of the antiseptic and keep my eyes on her, my anchor in the chaos.
She knots the last stitch with a tug that makes me grunt, then tapes a fresh dressing across the wound. “All right,” she murmurs, voice softer now but still edged with command. “You’re done. Sit. Don’t move unless you want me to do it all over.”
Before I can argue, she’s already helping me off the table, guiding me to a battered chair in the corner. The room tilts again, but her grip steadies me. Then she’s gone—straight to Boar, checking the graze on his shoulder, barking at Wren for more gauze. Frost limps in behind her, and she pivots without missing a beat, sleeves rolled, hair sticking to her neck, eyes sharp as glass.
I lean back, breathe slowly, and watch. This is my Calla Lily—hands covered in blood that isn’t all mine, voice cutting through the chaos like a bell. She belongs here more than anyone realizes: the calm in the storm, the one who keeps the Bastards standing.
Every club has its titles: Prez, VP, Enforcer. Tonight she’s something older, truer. Our healer. Our Lady of the Patch. My Lily. And God help anyone who tries to take her from us.
One by one, the brothers limp out, bandaged and grumbling, but alive. Calla chases each of them toward the hall like a general dismissing her troops, promising muffins on their bunks, ones she baked while we were out chasing ghosts. They go, every last one, until the med room is quiet again.
The air smells of antiseptic and sweat, sharp and clean now that the blood’s been scrubbed away. Calla’s at the sink, sleeves pushed to her elbows, wiping down the counter in slow, deliberate strokes. Her braid is half-undone, a few dark strands stuck to her neck.
I stay in the chair, chest aching where she stitched me, and watch her move. When she finally turns, it’s just us. The clubhouse beyond is silent—engines cooling, brothers asleep. She sets the rag aside, eyes finding mine like a magnet.
“All patched,” she says softly, voice almost a whisper now that the storm has passed.
My woman. Standing there like the calm after every fight, the reason I came home breathing. The door creaks open, and Ash steps in, boots heavy on the tile. He gives the room a slow once-over, eyes landing on me first, then on Calla.
“You’re still in one piece,” he says, voice low but edged with relief. “Good. And you—” he nods at Calla, “—hell of a job tonight. We all owe you.”
Calla wipes her hands on a clean towel, a tired smile tugging at her mouth. “Pay me and keep me busy,” she fires back, light dancing in her eyes. “Prison nurse salary doesn’t exactly cover this level of overtime.”
Ash huffs a short laugh, the kind that carries more gratitude than words. “Consider it done.”
He gives me a final look, half command, half concern, then backs out, leaving the door to click shut behind him. Calla leans against the counter, that small smile still ghosting her lips, and for a heartbeat, the whole clubhouse feels like it’s breathing again.
Calla drops the last towel in the bin and turns to me. “Let’s get you to bed before you pass out on the floor.”
I push off the chair, biting back a wince. “Long as you’re the one putting me there,” I murmur, letting a slow grin spread. “Pretty sure I could still show you a few things… even stitched up.”
Her eyebrows shoot up, and that half-smile curls. “You wish,” she says, giving my chest a gentle but pointed tap. “Bullet holes aren’t exactly an aphrodisiac. Give it a few days.”
I chuckle, following her down the hall. “Worth a shot.”
She shakes her head, laughing under her breath as we step into my room. Beau sleeps curled in the little bed Grimm built, fox tucked under his chin. I lean down, careful of the stitches, and press a kiss to the top of his head.
Calla slips into one of my shirts while I trade my cut for a soft tee. We slide beneath the blankets; the room settles into quiet.
“I love you,” she whispers.
I draw her closer, lips at her hair. “Love you more, Calli.”
The dark folds around us, warm and certain.
Morningslidesinquietly,soft as a secret. I move through the clubhouse on bare feet, checking room after room. Boar’s shoulder is wrapped and already bruising, but he grins when I lean in—“Good as new, Nurse Calla.” Frost and Wren are still out cold, bandages clean. Ash gives me a two-finger salute from the hallway, eyes shadowed but steady.
Everyone’s breathing. Everyone’s here. For now, that’s enough. When I finally ease open Rook’s door, the sight stops me. Beau had wriggled between us sometime before dawn, small hand fisted in Rook’s shirt like he climbed there in his sleep and never let go. Rook’s arm is draped across him, the rise and fall of their chests almost in sync.
