Page 41 of The Bastard's Lily
I nod. “A couple weeks. Enough time to remember why I left.”
“And yet here you are.”
“And yet,” I echo, brushing my thumb along the edge of the container, “here I am.”
Rook looks up from his carton, something shadowed in his expression now. “Why’d you leave?”
The question is soft. Not an accusation. Not bitter. Just… quiet. And honest. And too damn heavy.
I look down at the half-eaten dumpling in my hand. “Rook—”
“No note,” he says. “No goodbye. Just gone. Middle of the night, like you were running from a damn fire.”
I sigh, setting my chopsticks down. “I thought I was.”
He stills.
I wipe my hands on a napkin, not because they’re messy, but because I need something to do. “My mom found a pregnancy test. Lost her mind. Dragged me out of bed by my arm like I was some sinner in need of saving.”
His brows draw together. “You were sixteen.”
“I was a disgrace,” I say bitterly. “At least, to them. Didn’t matter that I was terrified. Or that I’d only ever been with one person. I was just—” I cut myself off. Swallow hard. “She shoved me into a car, told my daddy we were ‘fixing it’ before I ruined everything.”
“And he let her?”
“He handed her a Bible and said, ‘bring her back clean.’” My voice cracks on the last word.
Rook’s jaw flexes. He looks like he’s physically holding himself back from something—rage, heartbreak, maybe both.
“I thought I was being kidnapped,” I say, softer now. “Didn’t even get to grab shoes. Didn’t get to say goodbye to you.”
“You were pregnant,” he says slowly. “You were pregnant, and they just—” He exhales like he’s been punched. “Jesus, Calla.”
“I didn’t know what was happening until we were halfway across the state. They told me I had no choice. That I’d be homeschooled. Hidden. That no one could know. And I was too scared to fight them.”
“You were a kid.”
“I was carrying one too.” My eyes sting. “I thought about you every damn day.”
He doesn’t speak.
Not yet.
Just watches me with those storm-gray eyes like he’s trying to hold every word still between us—like they’re too fragile to breathe on.
“I wrote you,” I say. “God, Rook—I wrote you.”
His brows knit. “What?”
“To the clubhouse.” My voice wavers. “I had the address memorized from all those times we snuck around town, and you made that dumb joke about getting mail like a grown-up biker. I sent letters. I tried to tell you.”
He leans forward. “Calla—”
“I told you I was pregnant. That I didn’t know what to do. That I was scared, but I loved that baby already.”
“Jesus Christ.”
I shake my head, tears hot now. “But they never came back. Not one. My mother… she said that meant you didn’t care. That men like you—your kind—don’t stick around once they get what they want.”
