Chapter Two Rook
Idon’t hear her name first. Just the tail end of a grunt from Vice about some new hire at the prison. He was talking to some of our old timers doing time up there.
“—looked like trouble,” he mutters, wiping oil off his hands and flicking it toward the floor.
“Didn’t talk much. Pretty little thing, though. Brown hair. Ice-blue eyes. Couldn’t miss ’em.”
The moment the words leave his mouth, it’s like the air shifts. That’s how ghosts work. They don’t knock when they return. They just… show up. Cold. Quiet. Uninvited.
I stay silent.
The others keep on talking shop, tossing around guesses about whether the new nurse is fresh meat or just another pair of state-issued gloves. Someone jokes about how long she’ll last. Someone else laughs.
I don’t. I can’t. Because I know those eyes. I’ve seen them wild with panic and heavy with trust. I’ve seen them in my rearview mirror. In my dreams.
Ice-blue. Like the river the night we almost didn’t survive it.
“Did you catch her name?” I ask, too casual, too late.
Vex frowns, trying to remember. “First name is pretty, some flower. Last name is Hale, I think?”
The name hits me like a crowbar to the ribs. There it is. The final confirmation. She’s here. She came back. And she’s using her Grandmother’s maiden name to try and hide.
My knuckles tighten around the edge of the table until I feel the wood threaten to splinter. I make no sound. Show no reaction. Just grind my molars down and let the rage simmer. I don’t ask anything else.
Not when they start in on what she looks like, if she’s hot, if she smiled. I don’t want to know. Don’t want to imagine her in that sterile little nurse’s uniform, all soft-spoken and sweet while stitching up the same bastards I drink with.
She left. That’s all that matters. Left me standing in the ash of everything I thought we were building. No note. No call. No goodbye. Just gone. I kept that ring in my pocket for three damn months. Carried it like it still had weight.
It was stupid. I was stupid.
She made me believe it—made me think we were something more than a summer romance. But maybe that was all it ever was for her. One last rebellion before she snapped back into the good-girl mold. Back to white coats and clean hands and a life where I never fit.
And now she’s here again. Back in my town. In my orbit. In my fucking world, like the past didn’t gut me and leave the bones behind.
“Rook,” someone says.
I glance up. Vex is looking at me, brow furrowed. “You good?”
I nod once. Lie with the ease of a man who’s made a habit of it. “Peachy.”
They buy it. Or pretend to. I don’t stick around long.
The moment the meeting shifts to talk of the next run, I stand and slip out the side door.
My boots hit gravel like war drums in my head.
Outside, the sky is a flat sheet of gray, the kind that never quite turns to rain.
It’s the same kind of sky we had that night on the river.
The night everything almost ended. And maybe it did.
Maybe it ended a long time ago, and I just never noticed the silence that followed.
I light a cigarette. Don’t even want the smoke.
Just need something to keep my hands from making fists.
I stare down the long stretch of road, out past the gate and into the dark, where memories live like ghosts and grudges never sleep.
If she thinks she can walk back into Berlin like nothing happened… she's mistaken.
Ghosts ride back eventually. And some of them come for blood.
She was never supposed to look at me. Not like that. Not with those too-big eyes and summer freckles and that goddamn sunshine smile she used to aim at the choir pews on Sunday morning.
Calla Lily Blake. The preacher’s daughter.
The whole town thought she was made of light.
But I know better. I saw the cracks in the stained glass.
She didn’t belong in my world, and I sure as shit didn’t belong in hers.
But she came anyway. Every time. Like a moth to a flame.
Like she didn’t care that my hands were stained and my name was cursed.
I was the club’s feral stray—raised on rage and whiskey fumes, taught to ride and survive before I ever learned how to breathe easy.
I was fifteen when I got my first black eye from one of the older patched members for mouthing off.
She was thirteen when she found me behind the chapel, spitting blood and laughing like I wasn’t broken.
“Doesn’t it hurt?” she asked.
“Not as much as being ignored.”
She sat down beside me anyway. Cross-legged in a white dress that didn’t belong near oil stains and bruises. She smelled like lavender and clean sheets. Like sin waiting to be unwrapped. I told myself I’d never touch her. Told myself she was off-limits. But she made it impossible.
She showed up with lemon bars and bandages, sweet like Sunday school but wild in the eyes. We talked about nothing and everything. She hated being watched, hated being good, hated the weight of her name. And I… I hated everything but her.
I kissed her for the first time in the back of the church one Sunday. She tasted like defiance and freedom.
Now she’s back. And it’s like I’m bleeding all over again from a wound I forgot to keep stitched. Preacher’s daughter. And the club’s bastard son. That was always the problem. We were never meant to be anything more than a cautionary tale.
But fuck if I didn’t want to rewrite it. Once upon a time, at least. Who knows who Calli is now. She left like I was something to run from. And I let her.
Calla Lily fucking Blake.
Preacher’s daughter with a spine made of rebellion and honeyed lies. I thought I’d buried her in the ashes of who I used to be. Thought time and rage and a thousand miles of silence would dull the edges.
But here I am, still in Berlin, still to the blood and bone. And she’s all I can think about. Again.
Because some nurse in the prison clinic has the same damn eyes.
Same stubborn jaw. Same storm in her spine when she walks.
And I’m not about to let a ghost haunt me twice.
If it’s her, I’ll know. I’ll look her in the eye and rip open whatever’s left between us.
Get my answers. Find out why she disappeared without a fucking word.
Why she left me standing in the ruins of everything we built, like I never mattered.
Like I was just some feral bastard she experimented with before slipping back into her perfect porcelain life.
And if it’s not her? Then I can stop wondering. Stop chasing shadows. Stop bleeding for a girl who stopped bleeding for me.
But if it is her… if it’s really my Calla Lily…
then she’s got one hell of a reckoning coming.
Because I still dream about her. I still hear her laugh when I’m half drunk and half dead.
I still remember the way she whispered my name like a sin she was willing to burn for.
And I hate her for it. I hate her for still having that kind of hold on me.
I slam the door open on my way back into the clubhouse. The hinge rattles like it knows better than to argue. If I don’t put this energy somewhere, I’m going to start breaking shit that matters. So I head down.
Concrete under my boots. Fists already curling. Jaw tight. Steps sharper than the sound of bone cracking on impact. The basement hallway reeks of sweat and spit and old adrenaline. A breathless kind of rage lives in these walls. Feral. Fuming. Fucked up. Same as me.
A couple of prospects move out of my way without a word.
They know better than to stop a man with hell in his eyes.
The fight ring is already lit—red bulbs overhead casting everything in blood.
Chains on the wall. Cracked leather mats.
Rusted lockers and a low hum of voices from the crowd.
Betting slips. Hushed trash talk. That electric tension before violence explodes.
Perfect.
“You fighting or running your mouth again?” someone calls from across the cage. Leo. Bare-knuckle bastard with a grin made of malice.
I kick off my boots. Shrug out of the cut. Rip the shirt over my head and toss it to the side. Blood’s already thrumming. Muscles too tight. Breath shallow and caged.
“Put me in,” I say, voice sharp.
“Who you want?” Leo’s still grinning, already licking his damn lips like he’s hungry for my pain.
“Doesn’t matter.”
It never does. I’m not doing this for the win.
I’m not doing this for respect. I’m doing it because I need to feel something other than the ache she left behind.
Because if that nurse is her—if Calla came back to Berlin without telling me—I don’t know if I’ll kill the past or drag it screaming to the surface.
And if it’s not her?
Then maybe getting my ribs cracked open will finally shake her loose from the cage she’s got around my fucking soul.
The bell rings. I don’t wait. I launch. No names. No rules. Just blood and the promise of a blackout. The guy’s taller, broader. But he’s slow. And I’m not here to dance—I’m here to break.
My fist connects with his cheekbone. Crunch. Good. His head snaps to the side, blood already flying like spatter paint on the red-lit walls. He comes back with a wild swing. I let it land. Need to feel it. My jaw snaps sideways. Pain flashes white-hot and holy. I spit iron and grin.
“You hit like a fuckin’ preacher.”
That pisses him off. Good. He charges. Tries to tackle. I twist, hook an arm under his ribs, and slam him into the cage wall hard enough to rattle bones. He wheezes. I hit him again. And again. And again.
Calla. No. Don’t think. Don’t you fucking—
Fist to the ribs. My ribs. Something cracks. Can’t tell if it’s the cage or me. I swing wildly and catch him in the jaw, but he doesn’t go down. I don’t either. We’re locked now. Bloody. Sweaty. Teeth bared like wolves.
Muscle memory kicks in. Left. Right. Elbow to the neck. My knuckles split open, blood pouring down my wrist. I grab him by the hair and slam his skull into my knee. Once. Twice. He goes limp for a second. Then throws a desperate uppercut that clips my chin and sends me stumbling back.
I see stars. I see her.
The crowd’s screaming now. Stomping. Chanting.
Begging for blood. He rushes me. I duck.
Lift. Slam. The concrete shudders when I drive him down.
Then, I straddle him and rain hell. No more technique.
No more tactics. Just rage. Raw and rabid.
I don’t stop until someone grabs me. Two someones.
A third. Arms locked around mine. Voices shouting. Sirens in my skull.
“Rook—enough!”
I blink. Blood on my fists. My chest heaving. Jaw locked. The guy’s unconscious. Maybe worse. The world tilts. The red lights pulse like a heartbeat. And still—still—she’s in my head. That pretty face. That fucking ghost.
“Rook—enough!”
I don’t hear it at first. Not over the rush in my ears. Not over the thud of bone on flesh. Not over the way my heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to escape me. My fist drives down again. Then again. And again. The guy’s face is pulp. My knuckles split wide. I don’t stop.
Not until I feel him. Cold hands. Unshakable. Steel and sinew. A voice close to my ear. Quiet, but final.
“Get off. Now.”
I freeze. Not because I want to. Because that voice? That voice ends things. Grimm. Deacon fucking Holt. The club’s ghost. The reaper with tally marks inked into his goddamn bones. He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t throw punches unless it’s the last one someone’ll ever take.
I look up, panting like an animal. His eyes are void. Still. Watching me like I’m some mangled thing he’s got to decide whether to bury or clean up after. The guy beneath me isn’t moving. The crowd’s gone quiet. Someone’s bleeding. I think it’s me.
“You done?” Grimm asks. Calm as hell.
I don’t answer. My jaw clenches so hard my teeth grind.
“Didn’t ask for a fucking essay,” he mutters, motioning with his chin toward the exit. “Walk it off. Before I make you.”
I spit blood onto the mat and stumble to my feet.
My whole body shakes. From rage. From whatever the fuck just got knocked loose in me.
Grimm doesn’t touch me again. Doesn’t need to.
I walk. Because he told me to. Because if I don’t, I might kill someone.
Because Calla-fucking-Lily’s ghost is still clawing at my ribs, and I’ve got nowhere else to bleed it out but the dark.
I don’t talk to anyone on the way out. Not the prospect hosing off the blood.
Not the old heads playing cards by the chapel window.
Not even Jinx, who watches me with that twitch in his jaw like he wants to say something but knows better.
My boots echo down the main hall. Hardwood creaks under each step.
Familiar. Fucked up. The club’s heartbeat. Cigarette smoke. Lemon oil. Old blood.
Everyone's got a room here—even the ones who’ve built cabins or parked their trailers out past the fence line. But this room? This one’s mine. Always has been. I push the door open. Same sheets. Same dent in the wall from the time I lost it after Calla left. Same scent—leather, cedar, and iron.
I sit on the edge of the bed, hands still slick, split knuckles raw. My forearms shake with aftershocks. It’s not about the fight. It’s not even about the guy.
It’s her. Calla-fucking-Lily. Preacher’s daughter. Club’s wild little tagalong. The girl I wasn’t supposed to touch. The girl I did.
She’s everywhere in this goddamn place. In the hall where she used to sneak stolen peaches into my pockets. In the driveway where she used to scream on the back of my bike, arms too tight, laughter too loud. In the tattoo over my heart no one’s ever seen.
She’s not here. She shouldn’t be here. But ghosts don’t need doors. They come and go as they please. And mine? She never left.
I don’t remember pulling off my boots. Don’t remember the sound they made hitting the floor or the way my spine cracked when I leaned back against the mattress. I just remember her name.
It carves itself into the backs of my eyes, into the spaces behind my ribs, into the beat of the blood I can't seem to slow down. Calla. Calla Lily. The ghost I never buried. The girl I might see again.
And if it’s her? If she’s back? God help the motherfucker who brought her here.