Page 42 of The Bastard's Lily
His jaw clenches so hard I can see the muscle twitch.
“She said I’d been stupid. That I’d spread my legs for a boy who’d leave the second things got real. That you were never gonna be a father, just another mistake.”
“Calla—”
“She made me believe you chose not to answer.” I look up, throat tight. “She made me believe you were done with me. That I’d ruined everything by loving you. That you—” My voice breaks. “That you abandoned me.”
Rook is silent, but it’s not the quiet of disbelief. It’s the kind that comes right before something explodes. He scrubs a hand down his face like he’s trying to hold himself together with sheer force.
“Calla.” His voice is hoarse. “I lookedeverywherefor you.”
My eyes go wide, breath stuck in my throat. But he’s already shaking his head, jaw clenched.
“You weregone.One day you were mine, and the next—fucking vanished. No warning. No note. I drove to your house, the church, the store, your friends'—nothing.Like you’d beenerased.” The words are pouring now, ragged and real. “Your father found me the day after. Told me you were just asummer mistake.Said I should forget you, that you’d already moved on. Then he shut the whole goddamn place down. Church boarded up. House empty. It was like they’d been ghosts.”
Rook looks down, then back up—eyes burning. “I wasn’t gonna forget you. Icouldn’t.I was gonna propose, Calla. Ihad the ring.Fuck, Istill have it.”
My lips part, a gasp escaping my lips.
“I loved you. God, I fuckinglovedyou. Thought maybe you’d gotten scared, or needed time, but I waited. I held on for so long, thinking you’d come back. That someday I’d see you again.”
Silence stretches between us like it might snap under the weight of everything unsaid.
He softens finally, eyes tracing my face like it’s still the only map he’s ever known. “I never stopped, Calla. Not once. Not even when it hurt like hell to hope. And I never stopped fucking loving you.”
The words hang in the air like ash after a fire — bitter, burnt, and still smoldering. My throat burns, lips trembling like they’ve forgotten how to form sound. He still has the ring. He was going to marry me.
My chest cracks wide open. Something feral and fragile inside me claws to get out — the girl who sat on the church stepsscribbling his name into notebook margins. The girl who traced the lines of his jaw with trembling fingers. The girl wholoved himbefore she even knew what love could ruin.
My hands tremble as I wipe tears from my face. The silence between us stretches and bends, then settles heavy over our shoulders. The stars are brighter now. Like they’re eavesdropping.
My voice cracks when it finally escapes. “I wanna go home.”
Rook’s eyes lock onto mine. And maybe—just maybe—he understands I don’t mean the place I came from. I mean him. I always meant him.
Neither of us says a word as we pack up. I swipe at my cheeks and blink against the sting in my eyes, trying to pull myself together. My fingers shake as I fold the picnic blanket. The same one I used to wrap around my shoulders on church porch nights with him. It still smells faintly of sandalwood and clove.
Rook doesn’t speak. Doesn’t push. Just folds the takeout bag, seals the half-eaten dumplings, and loads everything into his saddlebag with practiced precision. It’s the silence that kills me—not cold, not distant… just reverent. Like he’s holding the space for me to break.
When everything’s packed, he walks to me slowly. No swagger, no cocky smirk, just this quiet gravity that pulls at something deep in my chest. He crouches slightly, holding out the helmet. Ihesitate. Then I let him slide it over my head. His fingers linger on the strap beneath my chin. Gentle. Careful.
He closes his eyes, forehead resting against the edge of the helmet for just a second, like he’s trying to breathe me in. I think he does. I think I do, too.
He says nothing as he swings one leg over the bike. Just taps the spot behind him with two fingers like muscle memory, like he never forgot the way I used to wrap my arms around him and press my face to his back.
I climb on, legs trembling, and slip my arms around his waist. And for a single, splintered heartbeat… I feel sixteen again. The engine rumbles to life.
We ride in silence — no music, no words. Just the wind tangling in my hair, the roar of the road, and the thunder of my heart in my chest as we barrel back toward the cabin I never thought he’d see. Home. Or at least the closest I’ve had to it since I lost him.
The tires crunch slowly over gravel as we pull into the drive. It’s quiet. Still. The kind of quiet that wraps around your ribs and makes it hard to breathe. Rook kills the engine. I don’t move right away. Neither does he.
Then his hands reach for me, steady as ever. He helps me off the bike like I’m fragile. Like I might break if he lets go. And maybe I will. But he doesn’t. His fingers slip into mine — rough and warm, still calloused in all the places I used to trace in secret under the covers of my childhood bed.
We walk to the door together. I don’t know what this is, or what happens next. But he’s still holding my hand when I open it. The cabin smells like home. Like sandalwood and lemon cleaner and something baking — or maybe just memory pretending.
Grimm lifts his head from the couch, a book open on his chest. He sees us and immediately presses a finger to his lips. Then he nods toward the hallway. “Beau.”
My heart flutters like it always does when I hear his name. I toe off my shoes and step inside slowly, the change in temperature kissing my skin. Rook does the same, his fingers still linked with mine like he can’t quite let go.
