Page 36 of The Bastard's Lily
I barely have time to swing off the bike before he crashes into me—arms wrapped tight around my waist, face buried in my kutte. I freeze. For a second, I just… hold him.
“Hey, bud,” I murmur, squeezing him gently.
He pulls back just enough to look up at me, cheeks pink from running, eyes wide and warm.
“I—I mean—" His voice catches. “I’m glad you’re here.”
There’s something else on his tongue. I can see it. His mouth opens, then closes. And then—
“D—” He stops himself.
Just the letter. Just the shape of it. His whole face flushes, and he looks down at his shoes like they betrayed him. My chest fucking aches. Grimm steps in smoothly, patting Beau on the head like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
“Hey, kid,” he says, grinning. “You ready for some serious movie snacks with Uncle Grimm tonight? I’m talkin’ candy for dinner, popcorn for dessert, maybe even a soda if you don’t rat me out to your mom.”
Beau’s eyes light up like fireworks. “Really?!”
“Hell yeah, really.”
Grimm winks at me over Beau’s head, then tousles his hair again before leading him back toward the porch.
We follow behind, boots thudding softly on the wood steps as Beau chatters the whole way.
“This is our porch. Sometimes my mom lets me eat popsicles out here if I don’t make a mess. That chair’s broken though, don’t sit in it.” He barrels through the front door without slowing down.
“Beau, slow down,” I say, but he’s already giving us the grand tour like it’s a damn mansion.
“Kitchen’s over there. That’s the fridge—don’t open it unless you like kale and weird health drinks. Mom says they help her skin glow, but they taste like wet grass.”
Grimm snorts. “Good to know.”
Beau keeps going. “That’s my room, and that’s Mom’s, and the bathroom’s tiny, so no pooping forever or she’ll yell.”
I blink. “Noted.”
He stops in the middle of the living room, arms wide like a game show host. “And that’s it!”
Grimm gives him a slow clap. “Five stars, my guy. You do birthday parties?”
Beau beams. But then her door opens. Soft footsteps. And everything goes still.
Calla steps into view like a ghost I never stopped dreaming about. Her hair’s up in a messy twist, curls spilling loose around her face. She’s wearing jeans and a gray, fitted sweater off oneshoulder, soft enough I remember the way it used to feel under my hands.
She freezes when she sees me. And fuck, so do I. She doesn’t speak. Just stands there, eyes dragging down my chest, pausing at my hands, then flicking back to my face like she’s trying to decide if I’m real. Like maybe she’s hoping I’m not.
“Hi,” I say, because I’m a goddamn poet when it comes to women I’ve betrayed.
Her lips part, but no words come out. She looks at me like she’s trying to hold herself together, but her shoulders give her away—tight, bracing for impact.
“Hey,” she says, so soft it almost doesn’t land. The word cracks halfway through, caught between too many things she’ll never say out loud.
Before I can answer, Beau comes crashing into the silence like a four-year-old wrecking ball.
“Mommy! He’smydragon! I told you! He didn’t eat my snack; he came to get me!”
He barrels into her legs, clinging like a koala. She stumbles back a half-step, caught off guard, and I reach out on instinct—don’t even think—just steady her elbow with my hand like I have every damn right to.
She stiffens under my touch. I drop it.
