Page 47 of The Bastard's Lily
The cartoon volume dips, and a second later, he barrels in, stuffed fox clutched under one arm like a sidekick. “Coming!” His little feet thump against the wood floor.
Calla takes the fox with exaggerated care. “And you, Sir Fox,” she says, giving the plush a solemn nod. She grabs one of the small chairs from the corner and parks it right next to Beau’s spot at the table. “Front-row seat, as requested.”
Beau beams, climbing into his own chair. “He likes waffles too.”
I arch a brow at the setup. “Fox gets a place setting?”
Calla just shrugs, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as she drops a tiny napkin in front of the fox like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “House rule. Important guests get a seat.”
Beau nods vigorously, syrup already dripping off his fork. “He’s family.”
I shake my head, grinning despite myself. Family. Yeah. I guess he’s not wrong.
The kitchen smells like coffee and syrup, sunlight spilling across the table while Beau keeps a running commentary oneverything.How Grimm promised the puppy. How the rainbow dinosaur needs “more sparkles.” How cartoons these days “don’t have enough explosions.”
Calla and I trade quiet smiles, letting him fill the room with sound.
I’m halfway through a waffle when he leans forward, cheeks sticky with syrup. “Hey, Dad—”
The word lands like a spark in dry grass. Calla freezes, fork halfway to her mouth. The room goes still except for the cartoon voices drifting from the living room. I don’t even blink.
“Yeah, bud?” I answer, easy as breathing. I spear another piece of waffle and pop it in my mouth like nothing just cracked open inside me.
Beau grins, relief flashing across his little face. “You think Uncle Grimm will really get me a puppy?”
“Knowing Grimm?” I wink at him. “You’ll have a whole damn wolf pack if we’re not careful.”
Out of the corner of my eye, Calla’s still staring—wide-eyed, a little stunned. I reach across the table, brush my thumb over her knuckles, and keep eating.
Let her see it’s simple. Because for me, it is.Dad. Yeah. That fits.
Calla leans against the doorframe, hair a mess from sleep, Beau perched on her hip with his stuffed fox clutched tight. Morning light slides across both of them like it knows they’re mine.
I press a kiss to Beau’s forehead first. “Be good for your mom, little man.”
He grins around a mouthful of cereal breath. “Bring me something cool.”
“Cool, huh? I’ll see what I can do.”
Calla tilts her face up, and I steal a slower kiss—warm, lingering, enough to carry me through the miles ahead. “Back tonight,” I promise against her skin. “Lock the doors.”
Her fingers tighten on my kutte for half a heartbeat, then she nods. “Ride safe, Rook.”
The Royal Bastards are already rumbling at the end of the drive when I swing a leg over the bike. Engines growl low as we roll north, the crisp October air cutting sharp through the trees. The route to Pittsburgh isn’t long, but it’s lonely—dense woods, black lakes, dirt roads that disappear into Canada if you blink.
Tonight’s job isn’t flashy. Guns for a local militia that thinks the government’s breathing too heavy down their necks. Cash up front, no questions asked. Grimm’s got the crates strapped tight to the chase truck, and the rest of us run flank.
Miles blur under the tires. Pines whip past in a blur of shadow and silver moonlight, the cold settling into my knuckles. Every sense stays wired, watching for blue lights, rival colors, anything that smells off.
It’s supposed to be a clean run. But the deeper we push into the backcountry, the heavier the air gets. Like the woods already know something’s waiting. The road narrows to little more than a scar through the trees—pines crowding close, branches clawing at the night. Our headlights cut ragged tunnels of light through the fog, but the dark feels heavier the farther we go.
“This is deeper than usual,” Grimm mutters over comms.
“Militia wanted a new spot,” I answer. “Off-grid.”
Miles crawl by. The asphalt gives up to cracked tar, then to dirt. Tires kick stones into the silence. Even the forest sounds wrong—no crickets, no owls, just the low growl of engines and the distant rush of unseen water.
Then the first shot cracks.
