Page 74 of The Bastard's Lily
Rook pulls him close first, forehead to forehead. “Be good, little man,” he says.
“I will,” Beau promises, gripping his fox tight.
I hug him next, breathing in the warm cinnamon scent of his hair. “Love you, kiddo.”
“Love you more,” he says, then bounces out of the truck and trots toward the doors, waving once before disappearing inside.
The quiet that follows feels different, lighter, but edged with something I can’t name.
Rook reaches across the console, fingers brushing mine. “Your day,” he says, voice low. “What do you want?”
I exhale, finally letting the morning settle. “Day off,” I remind him with a small smile. “Think I’ll just…breathe for a while.”
He squeezes my hand, a silent promise to keep the world at bay for as long as I need.
The afternoon sun hangs low when Rook pulls the truck into the school lot. I’m halfway out of my seat before I notice the silence.
No buses. No kids’ laughter. Just the wind pushing dry leaves across the empty pavement. Rook kills the engine, the sudden quiet louder than any roar. We share a look, something cold sliding between us, and head for the front doors.
Every entrance is locked. The glass reflects nothing but our own uneasy faces. Then I see it. A sheet of paper taped dead center on the main door, black marker slashing across the white.
You took our blood. We’ll take yours.
My heart drops hard enough to hurt. Rook’s jaw clenches, eyes scanning the lot, the street, the tree line beyond. One hand goes to the small of my back, the other curling into a fist.
“Calla,” he says, voice low and lethal, “get behind me.”
The breeze lifts the edge of the note, the words stark against the glass, and the whole world seems to narrow to that single threat.
Rook shoves the paper into his pocket and all but drags me back to the truck. Neither of us speaks on the drive; the silence is a living thing, pulsing with every mile. The clubhouse gates slam shut behind us, and the place erupts.
Ash is already barking orders, voice like a war drum. “Lock it down! Nobody in or out unless I say.”
Ridge peels off toward the security room. Wren’s on the phone, rapid-fire calls to every contact from here to the border. Outside, engines snarl as brothers circle the perimeter, weapons in hand.
Grimm crouches near the edge of the yard, studying fresh tire tracks that cut across the gravel like scars. His face is purecalculation, eyes narrowed, already following a trail only he can read.
That means they followed us. Knew when we would leave.
Rook is a storm beside me, jaw tight, fists clenched, pacing like a caged animal. The cut on his ribs hasn’t even healed, but he’s ready to tear the world apart.
I stand in the middle of the chaos, strangely calm. A cold, razor-edged focus settles over me, sharper than fear. They took my child. They left a threat. I will find them. I will end them.
Ash strides past, phone pressed to his ear. “Montreal’s already on the road,” he tells Ridge. “Northern Ontario’s an hour behind.”
Engines roar outside as more bikes roll in, patches I don’t recognize flashing under the floodlights. Reinforcements, hard and fast.
The air vibrates with fury and intent, but my pulse stays steady. Whoever left that note thinks they know what vengeance is. They’ve never met a mother ready for war. The yard floods with more headlights as the Montreal and Northern Ontario chapters thunder through the gate, engines snarling like a pack of wolves.
Inside, the clubhouse feels like a war room. Men crowd the tables, loading magazines, checking weapons. The air hums with low voices and the scrape of metal. The door to the upstairslounge bangs open, and Yeti stomps down the stairs, hair wild, face carved in stone. Age hasn’t dulled a single ounce of him.
“Ash,” he growls, pointing a thick finger toward the lot, “don’t you dare tell me to sit this out. That boy is family. I ride.” Ash starts to argue, but Yeti cuts him off with a glare that could stop traffic. “I raised you. Don’t think I won’t flatten you if you try.”
No one breathes for a second. Then Ash just nods, slow and tight. “Fine. But you stay with Grimm.”
Grimm stands near the door, silent as a shadow, eyes on the fresh tire marks like he’s reading a secret language. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t look up, just pulls a knife from his belt and tucks it into his boot. The quiet around him feels heavier than any shout.
Rook leans against the wall opposite me, arms crossed, every line of his body lethal. He hasn’t spoken since we came through the gate. Not a question, not a curse. Just a low, steady rage that fills the room like smoke.
