Page 31 of The Bastard's Lily
I turn toward Beau. He’s slow today—not dragging his feet, not fighting, just… quiet. Methodical. He loops the strap ofhis backpack over one shoulder, then reaches for his lunchbox. Then, the little stuffed fox wedged between the seats. He holds it tight, thumb rubbing over the worn fabric ear like it might tell him what to do next.
“You okay?” I ask softly.
He nods. Doesn’t look up. The driver’s door creaks as I push it open, but before I can step out, Rook is already there. Helmet off, sweat-slick hair flattened to his head, jaw set.
“Go,” he says quietly. “Boar’s askin’ for you.”
I glance at Beau.
Rook follows my eyes. “I’ve got him, Calli.”
That nickname—that old one—hits like a punch and a balm all at once. I hesitate. Beau hugs his fox tighter.
“Hey,” Rook says, softer now, crouching down beside the open door. “You comin’, Little Man?”
Beau peeks up at him. Just a glance. Then back down again. Rook doesn’t reach for him, doesn’t crowd him. Just waits. Calm. Solid. Beau finally nods.
I don’t look back. Not because I don’t want to, but because if I see Beau hesitate, if I see even a flicker of nerves cross his sweet little face, I’ll fold. My chest is already tight from the way Rookknelt down and offered his hand like Beau was something fragile and important.
He is.
I make it through the front doors and into the main room, where everything smells like leather and wood polish and the kind of secrets that get passed down in blood. The air’s heavier here. Quieter than it should be. Grimm steps out from the hallway, wiping his hands on a rag that used to be white and isn’t anymore.
“They’re in the back,” he says. His tone is even, but I can see it in his jaw—the tension. The worry.
“How bad is it?” I ask, already adjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just walks with me, slow and steady. “Not like last time,” he finally mutters.
I don’t ask whatlast timemeans. I already know what happens behind these closed doors. The back room is dim, with the door propped open by what looks like a busted dining chair. Boar’s perched on the edge of a table, fingers braced on his knees, while Wren stalks the far side like a caged animal. Ash stands near the sink, shirt off, blood on his knuckles, and something darker in his eyes.
Boar spots me first. “Little Calla.”
“Boar.” I set my bag down beside him, already pulling on gloves. “Tell me what happened.”
He clears his throat, gaze flicking toward the door like he’s checking who else might be listening. “Was chasing some… people down. ATV flipped. I went rolling down an embankment.” He pauses. “Shoulder feels off. Got some blood coming from my arm and up here.” He nods vaguely to his shoulder.
That’s all he gives me. No names. No reasons. No specifics. I don’t ask for more.
“Okay.” I cut through the fabric of his shirt with trauma shears, peeling it back to reveal the damage. The gash is ugly—jagged, wide, maybe six inches. I can already see exposed muscle and torn skin. His shoulder looks wrong too, like it’s sitting in the socket sideways.
“You’ll need stitches. A lot, and I think your shoulder’s dislocated.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice tight. “Figured.”
I nod once and keep moving. No commentary. No small talk. I inject lidocaine around the wound and wait for the numbness to set in. I don’t look up when the door creaks behind me. I don’t flinch when someone mutters something low in the hallway. I just sew.
He watches me work like I’m a stranger—and maybe I am. But his blood still stains my hands. I’m five stitches in when the door swings open again, hinges groaning like they’re just as irritated as I am. I don’t look up—Boar’s shoulder is a mess, and I’m halfway through anchoring the worst of it. But I hear the boots. Two sets. Heavy steps, light scuff. Someone drags their heel. Lazy.
“You live in this room now, Boar?” Grimm’s voice is all gravel and amusement.
“Better than dyin’ in a ditch,” Boar grunts, clenching his jaw as I tie off another knot.
“Hold still,” I murmur, wiping blood from the edge of his chest with a saline-soaked pad. I can feel Grimm watching me, but he doesn’t say anything at first.
A chair scrapes, and I know he’s sitting behind me. “Knew you’d come back, eventually.” Grimm finally says, tone casual.
“Yeah, well.” I thread the needle again, not looking at him. “I didn’t come back for you.”
