Page 76 of The Bastard's Lily
The door gives under my boot with a splintering crack. Inside, the room freezes. Beau sits cross-legged on a scarred table,calmly munching a cookie. Beside him, a leather-clad Scorpion blinks like he’s stumbled into the wrong universe.
“Told you,” Beau announces, grinning when he spots Grimm behind me. “See? Right in your wall. I said Grimm lives in the walls!”
The biker’s confusion lasts a heartbeat too long. I raise my Glock and squeeze. One down. The second man lunges from the shadows, shotgun half-raised. I pivot, fire. Two.
Grimm is already moving—silent, efficient. A blade flashes, and the last Scorpion drops without a sound. I cross the room in three strides, heart hammering. Beau looks up, eyes wide but steady, crumbs on his chin.
“You okay, buddy?” My voice comes out rougher than I expect.
He nods, unfazed. “They didn’t let me get my fox. Can we go home now?”
I scoop him into my arms, holding him tight against the pounding in my chest. “Yeah,” I breathe, the word a promise. “We’re going home.”
The world stays sharp and silent for a heartbeat after the last shot fades. Then the night fills with engines—low, familiar. Headlights slash across the clearing as the rest of the Bastards roll in, black kuttes catching the moon. Ash is first through the trees, Ridge right behind, the others fanning out like a pack of wolves.
They don’t need words. Doors slam, boots hit gravel, and they sweep through the other rusted trailers with practiced precision. Metal groans, locks break, lights flare and die.
“All clear,” Ridge calls at last, his voice flat and deadly.
I holster my Glock and cross to Beau. He’s still perched on the table, crumbs on his chin, calm as if we just left a diner instead of a firefight.
“Time to go, buddy.” I lift him down, the smell of sugar and gunpowder clinging to both of us.
Outside, Ash is already motioning to the road. “Let’s ride.”
I settle Beau on my bike in front of me, strapping his little helmet tight. My arms lock around him like iron. I don’t care if I can’t breathe. Grimm swings into position on my left, Yeti rumbles up on my right, their engines a promise no one will touch us.
We roll out as one, headlights cutting through the dark, brothers closing ranks, my son warm against my chest and my grip unbreakable all the way home.
The miles blur under our tires until the clubhouse lights rise out of the dark like a beacon. Gravel spits beneath us as we pull in, Ash and Ridge already peeling off to block the gate, Grimm and Yeti still tight at my sides.
I kill the engine, but don’t loosen my hold. Beau’s small hands stay fisted in my kutte, head tucked beneath my chin. Only when Calla bursts out the door—barefoot, wild-eyed, Beau’s fox in hand—do I finally breathe.
She reaches us, palms shaking as she cups our boy’s face, then mine. No words, just the three of us locked together while the roar of the bikes dies around us.
For the first time all night, I let go.
Beauissafe.Theclubhouse still stands, though it feels like the air itself is holding its breath. Rook hasn’t let go of our son since the bikes rolled in. Beau’s small fists clutch the leather of his kutte like it’s the only thing keeping the world from cracking open again. Rook’s jaw is tight, eyes darker than the midnight road, but his arms stay steady—iron and heartbeat and the kind of love that doesn’t break.
I move beside them, sliding a palm across Beau’s back until my hand rests over Rook’s. He doesn’t speak. He just tips his forehead against mine, our boy between us, and breathes like he’s relearning how.
No colors. No cheers. Just the quiet claim of family, written in the bruises on our skin and the blood we refused to spill for nothing. The rumble of engines dies one by one until only the low murmur of voices fills the clubhouse. Boots scrape across the concrete floor. The brothers file in, Ash first, Ridge rightbehind him, the rest spreading out like a wall of leather and steel.
Grimm moves in last. He doesn’t say a word, just reaches for Beau the way he always has. My son leans toward him, but his little fists never loosen from Rook’s kutte. Grimm chuckles, soft and rough all at once, and wraps his big arms around them both instead, brother and child locked tight against his chest.
For a moment, it’s the three of them, a knot of black leather and stubborn love, the rest of the Royal Bastards standing guard around us. No celebration. No war cry. Just the silent proof that we’re whole, and that nothing will ever pry us apart again.
Rook finally shifts, one arm still locked around Beau as he turns toward the hallway. “Come on, little man,” he murmurs, voice rough from the night. “Time to get you cleaned up.”
Beau keeps his hold tight, cheek pressed to Rook’s shoulder, the stuffed fox dangling from his other hand. I fall in beside them as we climb the stairs. Behind us, Grimm peels from the wall and follows, silent as a shadow.
In Rook’s room, the world feels smaller, safer. The bathroom light spills soft gold across the tile as we coax Beau into the warm bath. He blinks sleepily but never lets go of the fox, only lifting it onto the counter like a sentry while I rinse the dust and fear from his hair.
Fresh water. Clean towel. Tiny sigh. When he’s finally dry, we slip him into the dark-green Yeti pajamas, the stitched patchwinking under the lamp. Rook scoops him up again, Beau’s head nestling into the crook of his neck.
I glance toward the door. Grimm stands just outside, a silent guard with arms crossed and eyes sharp, making sure the night stays quiet. Rook catches my gaze and gives a small, tired nod before carrying our boy to the bed, the fox tucked safely under his arm.
Grimm eases the door shut, the softclickfollowed by the quiet scrape of him settling on the hallway floor. A silent sentinel. Inside, the room is hushed except for Beau’s steady breathing. He’s already gone, curled on his side with the fox tucked under his chin, lashes dark against his cheeks.
