Page 43 of The Bastard's Lily
He doesn’t speak. Just looks around, jaw tense, taking it all in. The hand-painted picture frames. The couch covered in a patchwork blanket. The boots too small to be mine by the door.
He sees it all. I wonder if he hears it — the echo of a little boy’s laughter that fills this space every day. The sound of the life I built from ash and instinct. He squeezes my hand gently. And for the first time in years, I let him.
Grimm stands from the couch, careful not to jostle the blanket over his lap. “Hey,” he says, voice soft as a lullaby. “Beauknocked out cold after the movie. I think he made it ten minutes in before he passed out.”
I smile, a little dazed from the wreckage of everything that just happened, but grateful.
Grimm reaches for his keys, then pauses in the doorway. “He’s a great kid, Calla Lily. You did good.”
Emotion spikes again, sharper this time. I nod, throat tight. “Thanks, Grimmy.”
He smirks. “Oh, and I may have promised him a puppy.”
My head snaps up. “Youwhat?”
Grimm shrugs like it’s no big deal and grins like the devil himself. “Be safe, kids!” he singsongs, slipping out the door before I can throw anything at him.
The door clicks shut. Silence blooms in his place. Full of all the things we’re still too scared to say. I turn to Rook. He’s standing there in my living room, looking so big and steady and out of place in the soft glow of the lamp beside the couch. Like he doesn’t quite believe any of this is real.
I hesitate. Then ask it as softly as I can. “Will you stay?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at me like he’s memorizing my face all over again. Then, he nods. And smiles. Idon’t even realize I’m holding my breath until I let it out. I reach for his hand. He takes it like it’s instinct. Like it’salwaysbeen instinct. And I lead him to my bedroom.
The door closes behind us, and suddenly the air changes. Thickens. I take a few steps into my bedroom, but when I turn around, he's already there. So close. His eyes find mine in the darkness, and for a moment, we just breathe the same air.
I reach up, my fingers trembling slightly as they touch his face. The stubble on his jaw feels exactly how I remembered. He leans into my palm, his eyes closing briefly.
"Calla," he whispers, and it sounds like a prayer.
I rise onto my tiptoes, pressing my lips to his. Softly at first. Testing. His hands hover at my sides, barely touching, like he's afraid I'll disappear if he holds too tight. But I need more. I need to feel real again. I deepen the kiss, and something shifts. His restraint snaps like a wire pulled too tight. His hands slide around my waist, pulling me flush against him as he walks me backward until my spine meets the wall. The kiss turns hungry, desperate, his body pressing mine into the plaster.
One of his hands finds my hair, tangling in it as he tilts my head back. His mouth travels down my neck, hot and demanding. I whimper as he finds that spot just below my ear that always made me weak.
"I've dreamed about this," he murmurs against my skin. "Every night for five years."
My hands slip under his shirt, feeling the hard planes of his stomach, the ridges of scars I don't recognize. New stories written on his body while we were apart. He shudders at my touch.
"Me too," I confess, my voice barely audible. "God, Rook, I missed you so much."
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes tracing every feature of my face like he's afraid I'll vanish. His thumb brushes across my cheekbone, touch gentle despite the calluses.
"You're even more beautiful now," he whispers. "Stronger. Braver."
I close my eyes, overwhelmed by the tenderness in his voice. This isn't the raw, angry collision from earlier. This is something else entirely.
"You raised our son," he continues, pressing his forehead to mine. "You kept him safe. Built a life. You're fuckingincredible, Calla."
His words wash over me as my fingers find the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward. He raises his arms, letting me pull it off, revealing the landscape of his chest—familiar territory with new landmarks. Scars I don't recognize. Tattoos that weren't there before.
"You're different too," I whisper, tracing a jagged line across his ribs.
He catches my hand, brings it to his lips. "Only on the outside."
I feel my shirt sliding up, his hands warm against my skin. I lift my arms as he pulls it over my head, his breath catching as he takes me in.
"Perfect," he murmurs, fingers skimming the edge of my bra. "Always so fucking perfect."
Our clothes fall away piece by piece—my bra unhooked with practiced ease, his jeans pushed down muscled thighs, my leggings peeled away like a second skin. With each layer shed, his praise continues, whispered against my collarbone, my stomach, the inside of my thigh.
