The Bastard’s Lily (Royal Bastards MC: Berlin, NH Chapter #1)

Chapter One Calla

Autumn in Berlin, New Hampshire, carries a wind that wails like a ghost, rattling the cabin windows and slipping icy fingers through the cracks of this old home.

It’s kept me up since before dawn, and now I sit in the silence with a chipped mug of shitty coffee, watching the sun drag itself over the mountains.

Never in a million years did I think I would be back here. I shiver as another gust of wind whips across the empty field, shaking the cabin.

Berlin feels smaller than I remember. Or maybe I’ve just outgrown the version of myself who used to belong here.

The girl I was died the day I left; buried under lies, betrayal, and ink-black grief.

What’s left of me now is sharp-edged, stitched together with scar tissue, and too damn stubborn to stay gone.

I glance toward the back room where Beau sleeps.

My son doesn’t know what it means to start over.

To him, Berlin is just another town, another bed, another chance to kick off his sneakers in the doorway and leave crumbs on the couch.

He doesn’t remember the blood that stained these streets.

He doesn’t remember the bastard who carved his name into me and left me to carry the pieces.

I sip the bitter coffee and force the thought back down. He’s not here anymore. There’s no way he is even alive at this point. I heard the whispers of his crash-out when my mother would come to visit me.

“He’s fighting anybody who looks his way.”

“A reckless little boy with a death wish, that one.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I’ll tell ya, I’m glad we didn’t stick around to see him corrupt my poor daughter even more.”

“Between fighting, racing, and beer—that boy is destined for the grave.”

Rook developed a death wish when he found out I “ran”, or that’s what he was told, at least. I can’t say I blame him too much on that front. We were two kids in love, and then we were ripped apart at the height of it all.

But there was a minor difference between Rook and me—he had nothing to live for, while I very much had somebody to live for. Our son Beau was the one I had to push on for. From the moment I heard his heartbeat, I knew there was no way in hell I would ever abandon him.

Beau is my heart. The only person I’d live—or kill—for.

But with each passing day, it’s getting harder to hide his father from him.

At four and a half, Beau is beyond his years.

The questions he asks are so inquisitive and complex.

He asks about his dad a lot and even tells me he knows things about him, but I just keep delaying the conversation.

Yet here we are. Back where it all started—the shitty little mountain town in New Hampshire. Ironic, isn’t it? I had to be ripped from this place to survive… and now it’s the only place I can survive.

Today I start my new day as an LPN at Berlin State Prison.

I make thirty dollars an hour, rent is dirt cheap, and they are desperate for help.

Turning, I make my way to the stove and cook a quick breakfast for me and Beau.

While the eggs cook, I pack his lunch for daycare—a fried bologna sandwich, apple juice, green peppers, and three chocolate chip cookies.

I sigh as I zip the lunch bag up. God help me if Rook ever meets Beau. There is no denying that Beau is his son. The only other person I know who eats fried bologna sandwiches and green peppers is Beck Wilder—the damn bastard.

I nudge Beau’s door open and step inside, careful not to trip over the scattered blocks and half-dressed action figures littering the floor.

He’s curled up under his blanket with his stuffed fox clutched tight in one arm, his lashes so long they kiss his cheeks.

My chest tightens. No matter how hard things get, I know I’ve done at least one thing right.

“Beau,” I whisper, brushing his curls from his forehead. “Time to wake up, bud.”

He groans dramatically and rolls away from me. “Five more minutes,” he mumbles.

I laugh under my breath. “Nice try. But today’s your first day at the new daycare, and I made you a fried bologna sandwich for lunch.”

That gets him. His eyes snap open, wide with excitement. “With green peppers?”

“Of course,” I say. “And three cookies. But only if you get up and brush your teeth before breakfast.”

He bolts upright like he’s just been granted parole, racing down the hallway in his mismatched pajamas. I shake my head with a smile, then turn toward the tiny mirror in the bathroom and brace myself.

The woman staring back at me is tired. Her hair’s twisted in a messy bun that didn’t survive the night, and there’s a shadow of worry under her eyes that even the concealer can’t entirely hide. But she’s still standing. Still fighting. That counts for something.

I wash my face with cold water, swipe on mascara, a touch of blush, and smooth my brows into place.

Nothing fancy. Just enough to look alive.

Then I tug on my scrubs—navy blue, state-issued—and braid my hair over one shoulder.

I dab on the rose-scented lip balm my Gram gave me before I left and take a long, steadying breath.

Today, I step into the lion’s den.

The smell of toast and fried eggs pulls me into the kitchen, where Beau’s already seated, swinging his legs under the table, chattering away to his fox like they’re plotting something. He grins when he sees me.

“You look pretty, Mama,” he says with a mouthful of toast.

“Thanks, kiddo. You look like a muppet who got hit by a tornado.”

He giggles, cheeks puffing out like chipmunks, and I feel that familiar ache in my chest. A tangle of joy and guilt. Love and fear.

Because the truth is—I have no idea what waits for me at that prison. But I know what’s sitting across from me at this table. And I’d go to war for him all over again.

We get through the rest of our morning and hop in my old truck. Beau buckles in the backseat as I head toward the main road.

The school is tucked behind a squat brick church, just far enough off the main road to make you think twice about whether you’ve got the right place.

The playground fence is freshly painted, and there's a plastic slide glinting in the early sun. Beau’s nose smudges the car window as we pull in, his breath fogging the glass with excitement.

But my eyes scan the lot first. Every car. Every angle.

I spot a rusted-out truck with a dented fender and a bumper sticker from the high school.

A minivan with a dreamcatcher dangling from the rearview.

Nothing with a patch. No bikes. No matte-black Chevys with custom plates or chrome skull valve caps.

Still, I don't let myself relax. Complacency gets you killed.

Beau hops out before I’ve even turned off the engine, clutching his lunchbox like it holds gold bricks. I follow slower, pulling my hoodie tighter around me like armor.

The director, Miss Jess, meets us on the steps. She’s barely twenty-two and chipper in that way that only people without trauma can be. “Beau! Hey, buddy! You ready to play?”

He beams at her and nods. I crouch down, brushing a crumb off his chin.

“Be good, okay?” I say quietly. “If anyone asks about our house, our names, anything—”

“I know, Mama,” he whispers back. “Stranger danger. No last names. Just Beau.”

“That’s my boy.”

He squeezes me tight and bolts through the door with a wave, disappearing into the hum of toys, cartoons, and kids who don’t yet know the weight of secrets. I linger, pretending to check my phone while my eyes keep scanning. No one follows me out.

But my stomach doesn't unclench until I’m back in the car with the door locked and the engine rumbling to life.

The drive to the prison takes thirty-two minutes exactly—unless traffic throws a tantrum, which it rarely does out here. Just endless pines and frost-nipped fields, long stretches of road with nowhere to run if someone were tailing you.

I check the mirror. Again. Then again. No bikes. No vans.

Still, I change lanes twice. Take a different route for the last five miles. It's an old habit now, burned into my bones like the club’s brand is burned into theirs.

The Berlin Correctional Facility looms into view like a scar carved into the mountain—ugly, gray, functional. My stomach churns, the familiar bile rising.

I pull into the staff lot, parking in the furthest corner. Out of sight. Less chance of someone recognizing me—or worse, remembering who I used to belong to. I kill the engine, take one last glance in the mirror, and force my hands to stop trembling.

“You can do this,” I whisper to myself. “You already survived hell. This is just the after.”

But even as I swipe my badge and head toward the gates, I can’t help but feel it in the air. He’s here. Somewhere. And it’s only a matter of time before our paths collide again.

The staff entrance buzzes when I swipe my badge, metal and motor grinding like the place resents letting anyone in. Cold air clings to the corridor, even though it’s nearly September, and the fluorescent lights above flicker with a headache-colored hue.

First checkpoint: locker room.

The door slams shut behind me, echoing off cinderblock walls. It smells like industrial soap, damp canvas, and too many secrets. Rows of lockers line the wall, dented and tagged with stickers, magnetic mirrors, and the occasional faded prayer card.

I find mine—new, still marked with a sticky note that says “Hale.” I twist the flimsy lock open, stash my hoodie and keys, and pull on the navy scrub top I was issued yesterday. It smells like starch and is about as stiff as it too. My name badge clicks into place.

“You’re gonna want to tie that up higher,” says a voice behind me. Gravelly, older. No-nonsense.

I turn. A woman in her fifties stands at the sink, scrubbing her hands raw. Her gray-streaked bun is tight enough to pull her brows. She’s wearing cracked clogs, a tattered compression sleeve on one leg, and a face that tells me she’s not here to coddle rookies.

“Excuse me?”

She jerks her chin at me. “Your hair. Loose like that, it’s a handle. Infirmary’s got three inmates on restraint orders this week. If they grab it, you’re fucked. Literally or otherwise.”

I swallow, fingers reflexively tightening the braid.

“High and tight, honey. Think nineties cheerleader, not ‘soft single mom energy.’ You won’t survive five minutes in C-Block otherwise.”

I nod. “Thanks.”

She dries her hands with a sigh. “You’ll get used to the smell. Or you won’t. Doesn’t matter. Nobody cares.”

A buzzer sounds overhead, loud and grating. The woman—her badge says M. Clark, RN III—scoffs.

“Shift change. Let’s go before Dispatch locks us out and makes a fucking example.”

I follow her down the hallway. The second checkpoint requires my palm print. A tired guard behind glass raises an eyebrow as I fumble with the scanner.

“New?” he asks, voice muffled through the speaker.

“First day.”

He grunts. “Watch your six. Some of 'em like nurses more than they should.”

The door unlocks with a mechanical hiss.

We pass through one more steel gate, this one double-locked and slow to open, and then we’re inside the belly of the beast.

The echo of boots on tile. Radios crackling. And always, always, the eyes. Watching from the shadows of rec rooms, infirmary windows, and barred doors.

Clark hands me a clipboard. “You’re shadowing me today. Don’t speak unless spoken to, and don’t ask the inmates shit unless you want them asking you something worse. Keep your ID visible, your voice steady, and your damn hair up.”

She stops walking just outside the infirmary door and turns to face me, nose wrinkling. “Oh, and Hale?”

“Yeah?”

“If you recognize any of 'em, don’t say a fucking word. That kind of familiarity gets blood spilled.”

The infirmary door groans as Clark shoulders it open, and the stench hits me like a punch—antiseptic, sweat, and something metallic beneath it all. The scent of things gone wrong barely covered up.

I step in behind her, clipboard hugged to my chest. My boots echo too loudly on the concrete, like the place wants to swallow the sound. Steel tables, barred windows, and cameras in every corner. It’s not just a med bay—it’s a cage with somewhat-decent lighting.

The morning drags. I patched up busted knuckles, stitched one guy’s ear back on, and cleaned gravel from another’s shoulder. Not a single one has said more than two words to me. I like it better that way.

Until the door buzzes open again. A guard leads in an older man—mid-fifties maybe, gray streaks his beard, and dried blood crusted down his forearm, soaking the bottom edge of his sleeve.

“Fence snag,” the guard says. “Let the nurse do her thing.”

The man lowers himself onto the stool slowly, grunting under his breath. He’s big. Broad. The kind of old-school tough that doesn’t need to posture. He doesn’t flinch when I peel the fabric back or when I rinse the jagged tear on his bicep.

“You’re new,” he says after a beat, voice low and rough.

“Yup,” I reply, tight and clipped.

He watches my hands as I work, eyes sharp despite the lines on his face. There’s a tattoo half-hidden under the blood—faded black ink near his shoulder. I can’t make out the design, but something about it tugs at a nerve I don’t want to name.

“You from around here?” he asks.

“Nope.” I swab the cut again, more firmly than necessary. “Just here to work.”

“Steady hands,” he mutters. “That’s good. You’ll need ’em in this place.”

I nod, eyes flicking to the mark again. A hint of a wing in the design? A crown?

No—can’t be.

“Seen a lot of patches torn like this,” he adds, like he’s talking to himself. “Barbed wire don’t care who you used to be.”

I pause for just a second. “Well, it cares now.”

He chuckles, low and dry. “Fair enough.”

The silence stretches. I bandage him up clean, but his eyes never leave my face.

“You remind me of someone,” he says finally. “Had that same fire in her jaw. Wouldn’t back down from anyone.”

“Hope she made it,” I reply.

He smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Me too.”

When the guard returns, the man stands, grunts, and adjusts the sleeve over the bandage. He doesn’t say goodbye. But just before the door shuts behind him, he glances over his shoulder and adds, “Be careful out there, nurse. Some ghosts don’t stay buried.”

And then he’s gone. My hands are still for a long minute. I turn back to the tray, staring at the bloodied gauze. That tattoo. That voice. No way. He’s just another inmate. Just another stranger.

Except I’ve seen a mark like that before—burned into leather, stitched into the backs of jackets. But that was years ago. And he’s gone now. Right…?