Page 73 of The Bastard's Lily
Both of them out cold. Both of them safe. I pull the blanket higher around their shoulders and just watch for a heartbeat, the low morning light catching the edges of everything I almost lost last night. I leave them tangled together, careful not to wakeeither one, and pull the door shut behind me.
The hallway feels too still. Every creak of the old floorboards sets my nerves on edge. Sleep is impossible, so I do the only thing that ever works—I head for the kitchen. The big room is empty except for the faint hum of the fridge and the low tick of cooling pipes. I tie my hair back, roll up my sleeves, and start pulling ingredients from the cupboards.
Flour. Sugar. Cinnamon. The motions are automatic, a rhythm older than the anxiety buzzing in my chest. Bowl. Whisk. Measure. Stir. Each sound—metal on metal, the soft rush of flour—steadies me just a little.
I don’t even know what I’m making yet. Muffins maybe. Bread. Something that will fill the clubhouse with warmth and cover the smell of gunpowder still clinging to the walls. As the oven preheats, I press my palms into the dough, letting the work soak up every jagged thought.
Knead. Breathe. Knead. If my hands are busy, my heart can stay quiet, at least for a while. The oven hums low and steady when the door swings open.
Grimm steps in, hair damp from a quick shower, kutte half-zipped. He gives me a small nod, eyes scanning the counters like he’s checking for hidden danger before heading straight for the coffeemaker.
“Smelled flour,” he says, voice still rough from sleep. “Figured you’d be in here beating dough instead of getting rest.”
I manage a tired smile. “Better than pacing.”
He sets the pot to brew, the hiss and drip filling the silence. For a minute, we just move around each other—the scrape of mugs, the warm scent of cinnamon rising between us.
Grimm leans against the counter, studying me. “Last night was a lot,” he says quietly. “But this morning? You look like you’ve been carrying a heavier weight for years.”
I pause, fingers pressing into the dough. “Because I have.”
His brow lifts, patient.
I keep my eyes on the countertop. “When I was sixteen, my parents found out I was pregnant. With Beau.” The words taste like iron, even now. “They locked me in that house. No phone. No friends. No way to tell Rook.”
Grimm exhales, long and low. “Damn, Calla.”
“They wouldn’t even let me send a letter. I thought about running every night, but I was barely more than a kid myself. And they—” My throat tightens. “They made sure Rook never knew. Not until a few weeks ago.”
Grimm shakes his head, jaw tight. “I remember you two back then. Always sneaking around, thinking you were subtle.” A faint smile tugs at his mouth. “Guess you fooled everybody but me.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “You were always watching.”
“Yeah,” he says softly. “And I’m still here. For you. For both of you.”
The coffeemaker clicks off. He pours two mugs and slides one across the counter to me. The warmth seeps into my palms, steadying the tremor I didn’t realize was there.
“Whatever your folks tried to bury,” Grimm adds, voice firm now, “you and Rook dug back up yourselves. That’s what matters.”
I nod, the knot in my chest loosening just a little. The kitchen door swings open, and warmth rushes in behind it.
Rook steps through first, barefoot, hair a ruffled mess that makes him look both half-wild and impossibly gorgeous. Sleep clings to him in the soft slump of his shoulders, but his eyes, dark and sharp even in morning light, find me instantly.
Beau is perched on his hip, small arms looped around Rook’s neck. He yawns wide enough to show every tiny tooth, nose scrunching in a way that’s pure Rook, except for the blue eyes that are all mine. The stuffed fox dangles from one hand, its tail trailing against a brand-new pair of dark-green footie pajamas stitched with a littleYetipatch on the chest, courtesy of the club’s elder statesman himself.
“Morning,” Rook rumbles, voice rough with sleep.
Beau blinks at me, still half-dreaming. “Mama,” he mumbles, laying his head on Rook’s shoulder.
My heart stutters at the sight—father and son a perfect mirror, framed in the doorway of a kitchen that smells of coffee and cinnamon. For a breath, the chaos of last night feels a lifetime away.
We linger over breakfast longer than usual. Grimm steals one of my muffins straight from the cooling rack and earns a scolding from Beau that only makes everyone laugh. Rook leans against the counter, still shirtless, sipping coffee like he has nowhere else to be, dark eyes tracking Beau’s every move.
By the time we’re ready to leave, the clubhouse has settled into a quiet rhythm—Ash and Ridge already outside checking bikes, a few brothers giving Beau high-fives on our way to the truck.
The three of us ride together, Beau wedged between us in the front seat, humming along to the radio with Fox on his lap. The sun glints off the wet pavement, and the mountains wear a thin crown of morning fog.
At the school drop-off lane, Beau wiggles free of his seatbelt and leans forward for his goodbye kisses.
