Page 66 of The Bastard's Lily
When the last gate buzzes open and the outside air hits my face, it feels like stepping out of a cage. Grimm is leaning against my truck, Beau perched on the hood beside him like it’s the best seat in the lot. Beau’s grin lights up the dusk as soon as he spots me.
“Mama!” he shouts, waving his fox. “We made cookies at after-school!”
Grimm gives a two-finger salute. “Kid’s a natural in the kitchen.”
Relief loosens something tight in my chest. “Thank you,” I say, meaning more than just the ride.
“That’s what family does, little Calla Lily,” Grimm replies with a grin, opening the passenger door for Beau.
The drive back to the clubhouse is quiet except for Beau’s chatter about sprinkles and story time. The northern sky bleeds gold and violet as we roll through the mountain roads, the engine’s hum steady beneath us.
But my mind never stops. Route 3. Logging road. Montreal. Calder. Each word burns hotter the closer we get. When we pull into the yard, the clubhouse is alive with the low thunder of bikes and voices. I barely wait for the truck to stop before I’m out, the cool evening air cutting across my skin.
I need to find Rook. Before the sun’s gone, before the words fade, I have to tell him everything I heard.
Beau makes himself at home the second we step through the door, kicking off his shoes and bee-lining for the big table in the main room. A few of the brothers look up from their cards, curious, but he doesn’t hesitate.
“Snack first,” I tell him, sliding a plate of crackers and fruit onto the table.
He grins, settles in, and pulls out his coloring book. “You guys wanna help?” he asks, holding out a fistful of crayons like it’s a challenge.
To my surprise, Ridge sets his cards down and joins him. One by one, the others follow—big, tattooed men lowering themselves to tiny chairs while Beau issues orders about dinosaurs and rainbows. Within minutes, the table that usually hosts beer and strategy is covered in crayon shavings and half-finished masterpieces. I can’t help smiling at the sight.
Grimm steps up beside me, a quiet wall at my shoulder.
“Where’s Rook?” I ask.
“In the stockroom,” he says, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Counting parts. Or maybe counting to keep from punching someone.”
I leave Beau happily bossing around half the clubhouse and make my way down the hall, past the hum of low voices and the clatter of a distant toolbox. The heavy door to the stockroom stands half-open.
Rook is inside, sleeves shoved up, counting boxes of parts that don’t need counting. His shoulders are tight, every line of him coiled. I close the door quietly behind me.
He senses me before I speak, head lifting as I step in. “Hey,” he says, voice rough. “Everything good out there?”
“No,” I answer, letting the door swing shut behind me. “I need to tell you what I heard today.”
His posture changes instantly—still, alert. “Go on.”
I take a breath and give it all to him: Lucien Vore walking into the bay with a fresh cut and a smirk, the scarred man who followed, their whispered talk about guns moving north. “They said tonight,” I finish, keeping my voice low but steady. “Old logging road off Route 3. Montreal boys meeting them at the ridge. And—” I hesitate, then add, “the name Calder came up. They said the Berlin crew’s already chasing ghosts.”
Rook’s jaw hardens until I can see the muscle jump. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.” I meet his eyes, refusing to flinch. “I heard it all.”
He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat of him, but his voice stays even. “You did good, Calla.”
“I didn’t have a choice,” I say quietly. “They’re moving tonight.”
For a beat, the only sound is the faint hum of the overhead light, the weight of what I’ve brought back settling heavy between us.
Rook exhales, low and lethal. “Then the club needs to move faster.”
His gaze stays locked on mine, dark and unblinking. For a long moment, neither of us moves. I can feel the hum of his anger in the air, a slow vibration that seems to pull me closer.
He steps in until the heat of his chest presses against me, until the edges of the work table bite into the backs of my thighs. “You walked into that and brought it back to me,” he says, voice rough. “Didn’t flinch. Didn’t run.”
“I couldn’t,” I whisper. “They were talking about Berlin. Aboutyou.”
