Page 58 of The Bastard's Lily
My stomach knots. “The… pit?” The word tastes wrong the second it leaves my mouth.
Ash tilts his head, watching my reaction. “Old boiler room under the clubhouse. Where brothers settle things when words don’t cut it.”
I stare at Rook, the cuts on his knuckles catching the light—suddenly obvious, suddenly explained. “That’s why your hands look like that,” I say quietly. “You fought him.”
Rook doesn’t deny it. “He ran his mouth. I shut it.”
A sharp breath escapes me, half disbelief, half anger. “That’s your solution? A secret fight club under the floor?”
His jaw tightens. “It’s how we handle disrespect.”
I shake my head, unimpressed, the weight of it sitting cold in my chest. “And you think that fixes anything?”
Ash lets the silence stretch before speaking, voice even but edged. “Apparently not. If the kid’s still sniffing around after a pit round, we’ve got a bigger problem.”
I keep my eyes on Rook, the sting of worry sharper than the smell of oil and smoke in the room. “Clearly.”
Rook’s jaw works like he’s chewing glass. Finally, he breaks the silence. “Remember that storm a while back? The night Beau wandered out?”
The memory slams into me—wind screaming, power dead, mud sucking at my boots as I followed Beau’s prints into the trees. The tire marks. The ones I thought were just a hunter or some lost hiker.
I narrow my eyes. “What about it?”
“That wasn’t some random set of tracks,” Rook says, voice low and dangerous. “Grimm found the same pattern on the prospect’s bike. Mud and leaves packed in exactly like the ones near your trail. He’s been to your cabin, Calla. That night.”
My stomach drops, cold and sharp. “You’re telling me—” I stand so fast the chair legs screech. “He was there? While Beau was out there alone?”
Rook’s nostrils flare. “Yeah.”
“Jesus Christ.” My pulse hammers, anger and terror tangling until I can barely breathe. “And you’re only telling me now?”
“I wanted proof,” he says, but the words don’t calm the fire in my chest.
Ash leans forward, eyes narrowing. “You sure about this, Rook?”
“Positive,” Rook snaps. “Same tread, same mud. Grimm said it before I even asked.”
My hands shake as I point at him. “My son was in those woods, and some creep from the club was watching us? You should’ve told me the second you knew.”
Rook’s voice is rough enough to scrape bone. “I’m telling you now because I’m done playing nice. He comes near you or Beau again, I’ll put him in the ground.”
Ash exhales slowly, the tension in the room thick enough to choke on. “Then we handle it—fast and clean.”
But I barely hear him. All I can see are those muddy tire tracks disappearing into the storm-dark woods, and the prospect’s eyes the day I patched up Boar. Watching. Waiting. The words barely leave Rook’s mouth before something in me snaps.
I shove back from the desk so hard the chair screeches across the floor. “Where is he?”
“Calla—” Rook starts, but I’m already at the door.
I don’t wait for permission. I throw it open and storm down the hallway, boots pounding the stairs. The low thrum of voices from the clubhouse below swells as I hit the second floor. Faces turn, surprised, but I don’t care. I see him near the bar—helmet in hand, laughing with another brother—like he hasn’t been stalking my home.
“Hey!” My voice cracks across the room like a whip. “You think you can come near my kid and hide behind this patch?”
The prospect stiffens, eyes going wide. The room falls silent.
Behind me, Ash’s voice bellows from above, “Rook! Handle your woman!”
Heavy footsteps thunder down the stairs. Rook’s right behind me, all heat and motion. Before I can take another step, his arm is around my waist.
