Page 32 of The Bastard's Lily
Boar chuckles low and pained. Grimm laughs outright.
“Same mouth,” Grimm says, whistling through his teeth. “Little more grown.”
I don’t answer. My hands are steady, my focus pinned to the meat of the wound. I count each stitch out loud in my head. Seven. Eight. The door opens again. Someone else. Then two more. They come and go—checking on Boar, making stupid jokes, talking over me like I’m just another fixture in the room. Nobody says "Calla." Nobody says shit. They just treat me like I never left. Like I’m still that girl patching up scraped knuckles after bar fights. Except I’m not.
I finish the last stitch and reach for the shoulder. “This is gonna suck.”
“Already sucks,” Boar mutters, sweat beading along his temple.
“On three,” I say. Then I pop the joint back into place on two.
He lets out a strangled grunt, nearly bites his own tongue, but the joint slides in with a slick clunk, and I press my palm to hold it stable while he breathes through it.
“Asshole move,” he groans.
“I lied,” I say. “Sue me.”
Grimm whistles again, impressed. “You gonna start charging us for this, or is it still free for friends?”
“Who said we’re friends?” I ask, taping Boar’s shoulder and strapping it into a sling.
Grimm grins. I can feel it without turning around. Then I notice him. In the corner. The prospect. He hasn’t said a word. Hasn’t moved either. Just leaned against the wall near the cabinets like a damn ghost. His eyes don’t leave me, not even when I glance up and catch him looking.
It’s not creepy exactly, but it’s not respectful either. It’s something else. Assessing. Measuring. Like he’s trying to figure out where I fit. Or whether I do at all. I press a fresh bandage to Boar’s wound a little harder than necessary.
“You need something?” I ask, eyes cutting toward the prospect.
He doesn’t answer. Just shakes his head once.
Grimm snorts. “Don’t mind him. He doesn’t talk. Not unless you kick him.”
“Noted.” I slap a sterile pad into Boar’s good hand. “Change that every twelve hours. Don’t rip the stitches open again, or I’ll staple you shut next time.”
“You always this sweet?” Boar asks.
I give him a tight smile. “Only when I’m home.”
I wipe my hands on a rag and drop the medical bag onto the counter with a quiet thunk. Boar’s patched up, shoulder back in place, stitched, bandaged, and groaning under his breath like it’s the end of the world. It’s not. He’s fine. Just dramatic.
Grimm had stayed behind while I worked, tossing out casual conversation like no time had passed at all. And the others wandered in and out—nodding, smirking, gruff hellos—like I hadn’t vanished for five years and come back with a kid that looks just like his father.
But it’s the prospect who sets my nerves on edge. He didn’t say anything wrong. Didn’t do anything, really. Just lingered too long when I bent over Boar’s shoulder, eyes too sharp, smirk a little too smug. The second I told him to hand me gauze, he jumped like he got caught sneaking into a church basement. Something about him makes my skin pull tight.
I don’t dwell on it. Don’t have time to. Because I step out into the main room, and everything in me stills. Rook’s on the floor, knees bent, arm braced to the side. His kutte’s stretched across his back, ink spilling down both arms. He’s big. Broad. Dangerous by every metric that matters—scars, muscle, scowl. One of those men you cross the street to avoid.
But he’s got a tiny crayon in his hand. Beau leans into his side, tongue poked out in concentration as he colors half a dinosaur purple and tries to decide if the other half needs to be rainbow. Puzzle pieces are scattered to the side. One’s stuck to Rook’s knee.
And for a minute, neither of them sees me. My heart clenches. Because no one—not even me—would look at that man and think he belongs on the floor with a four-year-old and a coloring book. But here he is. Steady. Patient. Letting Beau boss him around like he’s the assistant instead of the outlaw.
And Beau… He’s smiling. Like he’s never done anything else. Like this isnormal. Like Rook’shis. Ours. My throat tightens as I watch, hands still stained with Boar’s blood, heart twisted up in too many directions. Because this—this—was never supposed to happen. But here we are. And I can’t tell if it makes me want to cry or run. Or finally breathe.
Rook looks up. And damn it, hesmiles. Not the cocky one. Not the one that curls like smoke at the edge of his mouth when he’s getting into trouble or about to throw a punch. No, this one is full. Wide. Honest. It’s the kind of smile that makes my ribs feel too tight. Like maybe my body’s not built to hold the way he looks at me right now.
His eyes trace me slowly, like he’s memorizing all the new pieces of me, cataloguing the places time touched, just in case I vanish again. Then he stands. Tattooed arms flex, kutte creaking as he rises off the floor. I catch the way his knees crack, the way his jaw tightens from the pain I know he’s still carrying. But he doesn’t make a sound. Doesn’t even hesitate. Just moves toward me like he’s got gravity on his side.
Grimm drops into his spot without a word, casually reaching for a crayon like he’s been coloring with four-year-olds his whole damn life.
“Whatcha got here, little man?” Grimm asks, ruffling Beau’s curls.
