Page 60 of The Bastard's Lily
He studies me for a heartbeat, then nods once—no questions, just quiet understanding—and steps aside so I can slip inside. Beau is curled on the cot, Fox tucked under his chin, eyes drooping. The sight softens something in my chest even as the anger simmers.
“Bedtime, buddy,” I whisper.
“Where’s Dad?”
I brush a hand over his hair. “He had to run a quick errand,” I murmur. “He’ll be back before you wake up.”
Beau nods, already half-asleep. I scoop him up, his little arms wrapping around my neck, and carry him to the bigger bed. The scent of leather and cedar still clings to the blankets—Rook everywhere.
“Let’s get you extra comfy,” I whisper.
He curls against the pillow without protest, Fox tucked tight under his chin. I pull the heavy quilt over him, smoothing it across his small shoulders until he sighs. The room is quiet but for his breathing. I toe off my boots and slide in beside him, the mattress warm where he’s settled. He shifts automatically, tucking himself into the curve of my body the way he did when he was tiny.
I press a kiss to the top of his head and close my eyes, the thrum of the clubhouse muffled by thick walls, the storm inside me finally giving way to the simple rhythm of my son’s heartbeat against mine.
I tighten my arm around Beau, eyes fixed on the dark ceiling. Whatever waits outside these walls—club wars, old ghosts, the man who dared come near my boy—will have to go through me first.
And tonight, nothing is getting past me.
Iwakestiffontheclubhouse couch, the kind of half-sleep that never really lets go. My back protests as I stretch, the stale taste of yesterday still in my mouth.
The room’s quiet, too early for engines or laughter, just the low hum of the refrigerator and the faint buzz of neon from the bar below. My door stays shut down the hall.Good. Calla and Beau need the rest.
I snag a cigarette and head outside, boots whispering over the worn wood stairs. Dawn hangs gray and cold over the lot, mist curling off the trees. The first drag cuts through the fog in my head. That’s when I see it.
A small cardboard mailer sits just inside the front gate, damp from the morning dew. No postage. No markings. Like it walked there on its own.
I flick the ash from my smoke and walk over, every sense sharpening. The metal of the gate is slick under my hand as I unlatch it. The package is light, almost weightless, but something about it feels wrong—too deliberate.
Back inside, I tear the flap with my thumb. A cheap burner phone slides out, screen already glowing. One photo. Beau’s school backpack. Navy canvas, frayed strap, the little fox patch Calla sewed on with his name. Lying in a bed of wet leaves, deep woods I don’t recognize.
My cigarette drops to the floor. For a long beat, I just stare, breath coming slow and heavy, the world narrowing to that single image. Someone touched my boy’s things. Someone wants me to know.
The phone feels like a live wire in my hand, heat crawling up my spine. Whoever left this wanted me to see it first thing. Wanted me to burn. I shove the gate closed hard enough to rattle the chain and stride back inside. Every step echoes off the quiet hallway, each one louder than the last.
Down the corridor, past sleeping rooms and the faint hum of the bar fridge, straight to my door. I don’t bother knocking. The handle turns under my grip, and I push in, the dark room smelling like cedar and Calla’s shampoo. She’s curled on the bed with Beau tucked against her side, both of them wrapped in the quilt I’d pulled over them last night.
“Calla.” My voice comes out rough, too loud.
She stirs, blinking in the thin morning light. “Rook? What—”
I’m already at the bedside, the phone held out like evidence. “Wake up.”
Her eyes clear fast when she sees my face. “What happened?”
I tap the screen. The photo flares bright in the dim room. Beau’s backpack, the frayed strap, the fox patch lying in a nest of wet leaves.
“They left this at the gate,” I say, voice low but shaking with rage. “A burner. No note. Just this.”
Calla sits up so quickly the blanket slips from her shoulders, one hand pulling Beau closer even as he sleeps on. Her gaze snaps to mine, wide and sharp.
“Someone touched our kid’s stuff,” I grind out. “And they want us to know.”
Calla’s eyes ignite the second she sees the picture—pure fire, not fear. “Whoever touched his bag,” she says, voice low and lethal, “isn’t walking away.”
I nod once. “I’m telling Ash.”
She gives a sharp jerk of her chin, already climbing out of bed, Beau still asleep against the pillows. I leave before the anger in her eyes burns a hole through me. The clubhouse is stirring now—boots on old wood, the smell of coffee and motor oil creeping through the halls. Ash is in his office when I push the door open without knocking.
