Page 30 of The Bastard's Lily
The low, rumbling growl of a motorcycle creeps up the road before I even realize I’m holding my breath. It starts as a hum in my chest. Then a tremble in the floorboards. Then Beau is up like a shot, crayons flying, face pressed to the window beside the front door.
“Mommy! A bike!”
I grab him before he can unlatch the lock, arm curling around his chest as I pull him back, heart slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to claw its way out.
“Wait,” I whisper, eyes still locked on the front path. “Let me see who it is first.”
The bike skids in fast, kicking up a cloud of dust behind the tires. Black. Loud. Familiar. My breath snags as the engine cuts off and the rider dismounts with violent precision. Rook. He doesn’t knock. Doesn’t hesitate. He storms up the steps and throws open the front door like he owns the damn hinges.
“You—” I snap, voice low and venomous, “—do not get to show up here like this. How the hell do you even know where—”
“Boar’s hurt.” His voice slices through mine. Cold. Flat. Urgent. “We need help.”
My mouth goes dry. “What?”
“He flipped his ATV, cut up real bad.”
“Then take him to the damn hospital!” I shoot back. “Why are you here?”
“Calla,” he growls, eyes boring into mine. “You know we don’t go there.”
My stomach drops. I do know.
“Mommy…” Beau tugs on my hand, eyes wide, scared. “Is the man hurt bad?”
I crouch to his level, brushing his hair back. “Yeah, baby. He is.”
Beau looks up at me, brows scrunched, voice soft. “Can you fix him like you fixed me when I fell at the pond?”
Rook’s face cracks, just a little. Enough for me to see the storm behind his steady front.
“I can do that, bug.”
Beau looks between us, then nods, solemn like a soldier. “Okay. I’ll get my coloring stuff and be real quiet.”
I swallow the lump rising in my throat and nod once. “Put the muffins on the counter to cool. Stay in the kitchen. No peeking, okay?”
He gives me a tiny salute. “Yes, ma’am.”
Rook watches the exchange, jaw ticking.
“You sure about this?” I ask him quietly.
“No.” He looks me dead in the eye. “But he’s bleeding wicked bad up at the clubhouse.”
I pack fast—gauze, tape, alcohol wipes, gloves. Scissors. Stitch kit. Everything I might need, plus the things I hope I don’t.
The metal box clanks as I drop it into the passenger seat of the truck. I slam the door hard enough to shake off the nerves I don’t have time to feel. Beau stands at the edge of the porch, his littlefox clutched to his chest, eyes bouncing between me and Rook. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t have to. The questions are all there, stamped across his face.
And Rook—he’s just still. Like he’s afraid to move and shatter whatever truce we’re balancing on. I give them both a nod. Not gentle. Not soft. But enough.
“Let’s go.”
The truck door creaks open. Beau climbs in first, small and quiet. Rook gets on his bike, not saying a word. The storm’s coming again. I can feel it.
I pull into the clubhouse lot, gravel popping under the tires, the engine ticking as it cools. My fingers tighten around the wheel. I don’t even put the truck in park before Beau’s already moving, unbuckling, grabbing his backpack like we’re just getting home from school.
But we’re not. We're here. I shift into park and cut the engine. Rook’s bike rumbles behind us and settles into a low idle before he kills it.
