Page 50 of The Bastard's Lily
“I never got rid of it,” she adds, a wry smile ghosting across her mouth. “Figured you’d rather have these than another towel.”
I catch her wrist before she can pull away; the warmth of her skin grounds me. “Perfect,” I murmur.
The shirt smells faintly of cedar from the dresser. I tug it over my head; the cotton slides easily across skin that finally feels clean. She watches just long enough for our eyes to meet, something quiet passing between us—home, history, maybe a promise—before she turns toward the softly thumping dryer.
Outside, the woods are silent, but the weight of the night still hangs thick. Inside, with her handing me a piece of my past, it almost feels like we’ve already claimed the next fight together. The house settles into that deep, midnight hush—the kind that only happens in the mountains. The dryer hum fades to a low purr behind us.
Calla starts to turn toward the living room, maybe to recheck the locks, but I catch her hand. No words. Just fingers sliding through hers. She looks up, eyes soft and questioning, but she doesn’t pull away.
I give a gentle tug and lead her down the short hall, the floor cool under our bare feet. The door to her room creaks a little when I push it open. Moonlight spills across the quilt, silvering the edges.
She doesn’t ask me to stay. I don’t ask if I can. I pull the covers back, guide her in first, and then stretch out beside her. She fitsagainst me like she never left—her head on my chest, the steady rhythm of her breathing syncing with mine.
Outside, the woods are black and endless. Inside, there’s only the sound of her heartbeat and the slow rise and fall of our breaths. I wrap an arm around her waist, holding her closer. No words needed. Just sleep.
Iwakebeforethesun,heart already beating too fast. Rook’s wrapped around me, warm and solid, his arm heavy across my waist. Normally, that weight is the safest thing I know. This morning, it feels like a shield against a world that’s suddenly meaner than it was yesterday.
Last night’s whispers keep replaying—the ambush, the burned scorpion carved into the fence, the name he spoke in the shower.Calder. I can still taste the worry in his voice when he told me. Someone he trusted. Someone the Royal Bastards trusted. And inside the prison, I’d only ever known Calder as Scorpions.
The thought twists sharply in my stomach. If he’s been straddling both worlds, feeding the Scorpions everything, then what happened on that run wasn’t just bad luck. It was a setup. I press my face into Rook’s chest, breathing in the smoke-and-leather scent that clings to him even after the shower. He doesn’t stir. Of course he doesn’t—he spent half the night on high alert,then came home to keep Beau and me safe.
I love him. God, I do. But loving him means loving the club, and today that feels like loving a storm. Outside, the forest is silent—the kind of quiet that makes you listen harder. Inside, I count his heartbeats and pray the Bastards are ready for whatever’s coming next.
Rook stirs before I can untangle from him. A low sound rumbles in his chest, and then his lips find the back of my neck—slow, unhurried kisses that chase away the last of the chill.
“Morning, angel,” he murmurs against my skin.
I turn just enough to see the faint grin tugging at his mouth, the one that always makes me forget how dangerous the world outside this cabin can be. Before I can answer, the door bangs open.
“Mama! Dad?!” Beau barrels in like a pint-sized hurricane, stuffed fox bouncing in his fist. He launches himself onto the bed with zero warning.
Rook catches him mid-air, laughing as Beau lands between us.
“You’re still here!” Beau’s eyes are wide, sparkling like it’s Christmas morning. “You didn’t leave!”
Rook scoops him closer, pressing a kiss to the top of his messy hair. “Told you I’d be here, little man. I'm never leaving you.”
Beau wriggles out of the blankets, already bouncing. “School! We gotta get ready! Dad’s making breakfast, right?”
I can’t help it, I laugh, even with last night’s fear still lodged under my ribs. Rook’s grin only widens.
“Yeah,” he says, eyes meeting mine over Beau’s head. “Dad’s still here.”
We tumble out of bed in a blur of little-boy energy and warm laughter. Beau charges ahead, chattering about cereal and the fox’s “front-row seat,” while Rook trails behind, one hand at the small of my back like he’s not ready to let the night go.
The cabin fills with the smell of coffee and toast. Rook moves easily around the kitchen, pouring batter onto the griddle while Beau sets the table—three plates, and one for the fox, of course. I steal quick sips of coffee while flipping through the day in my head: shift at the prison, intake paperwork, medication counts, the usual.
Rook catches me reaching for my scrubs. His brow furrows, that storm-cloud look I know too well. “You’re really heading in today?”
“Yeah,” I say lightly, slipping the top over my head. “It’s just work.”
“After what happened last night?” His voice stays low, but the edge is there. “Scorpions are too close, Cal.”
I step closer and lay a hand on his chest. “I’ll be fine. You made sure of that.” I hold his gaze until the tension in his shoulders eases, just a little. “Besides, the prison’s locked down tighter than any clubhouse.”
Beau bounds over before Rook can argue again, eyes bright. “Dad, can we have waffles every day? You make ‘em better than Mama.”
That earns a grin from Rook and a relieved breath from me. The room feels lighter as Beau climbs into his chair, fox tucked under his arm.
