Page 82 of The Bastard's Lily
Two nurses trade shifts with me during the week, old friends from the hospital who like the slower pace and the no-questions vibe. A local doctor drives up every Thursday to handle anything that needs a prescription or a signature. We see everything from busted knuckles to stubborn fevers, from loggers, to overworked parents who can’t afford an ER bill.
And then there’s the work that never hits a chart. Ash sends “casual walk-ins,” injuries the club doesn’t want logged. Sometimes it’s the Bastards, sometimes it’s another patch passing through. I don’t ask, they don’t explain. They know I’ll keep it quiet and keep them standing.
It’s clean, it’s stocked, it’s humming with life. Exactly what I wanted: a place where I can patch up anyone who needs it—brother, stranger, or the kind of man who can’t risk a hospital. A place that’s mine, even with the Bastards’ fingerprints all over the foundation.
The Lily may smell like antiseptic and burnt coffee, but to me, it smells like freedom.
The club just calls itCalla’s place, which somehow feels heavier, like a badge I never asked for but earned anyway. Beau, of course, came up with his own name the first time he barreled through the door.
“Mama’s Fix-It Fortress,” he declared, and it stuck. I catch myself smiling every time I hear him say it.
My desk drawer sums it up better than any sign could: a jar of lollipops for the brave, antiseptic for the wounded, and a loaded Glock resting in the back—quiet insurance that nothing and no one walks out of here without my say-so.
It isn’t fancy, but it’s ours. And after everything we survived, that’s more than enough. I still do some shifts here and there at the prison, but I spend most of my days right here. The door chime sings again, and I know that sound before I even look up—boots on the worn floor, the low rasp of a leather kutte.
Rook steps in with Beau balanced on his hip, both of them grinning like they already know the secret. Beau’s backpack bumps against his dad’s side, a trail of playground dust still clinging to his shoes.
“Hey, Mama,” Beau says, waving a marker-smeared hand. “We kidnapped Daddy’s bike after school.”
Rook drops a kiss to the top of my head before setting our son down. “Figured we’d come steal you for a few minutes,” he says, eyes catching mine, dark and warm. “Talk wedding plans.”
Beau bounces between us, excitement practically humming off him. “At the cabin, right? With fox and the trees and everything?”
I laugh, the sound easing the day’s tension. “That’s the plan.”
“Nothing fancy,” Rook adds, rubbing a thumb over my knuckles. “Just us, the kid, and the people who matter. A small ceremony at our cabin. Home.”
The wordhomelands deep, steady, and certain. And for the first time since we started this wild ride, it feels like exactly where we’re headed. The door swings open again before I can answer. Grimm fills the frame, all six-plus feet of leather and tattoos, the grin already aimed at Beau.
“There’s my partner in crime,” he rumbles, holding out a hand the size of a skillet. “You ready to help me paint the rest of that barn wall before it gets dark?”
Beau launches himself forward without a second thought. “Rainbow dinosaurs!” he cheers, stuffing a fistful of crayons into Grimm’s cut pocket for good measure.
Grimm shoots me a mock-serious look. “Promise I’ll return him with only a light coating of paint. Maybe glitter. No guarantees on the glitter.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You two are impossible. Go on, but keep him out of the blue paint—he still smells like a Smurf from last time.”
They disappear in a whirl of giggles and heavy boots, leaving the room warm and a little quieter.
Rook steps behind me, palms braced on my hips, chin brushing my shoulder. “Lock up and come home with me,” he murmurs.
I glance around the clinic—my clinic. The jarred calla lily catches the evening light. The faint buzz of the old fridge. The steady thrum of a place that finally feels like mine. This is it. Everything I ever pictured when I was a girl, sneaking kisses behind a church and dreaming of something bigger than the cage I grew up in.
I flip the sign toClosed, turn the deadbolt, and lace my fingers through Rook’s. My life. My family. My forever.
The cabin smells like garlic and wood smoke, the kind of warmth that settles right into my bones. Rook moves around the table with quiet purpose, sleeves shoved up, the clink of silverware steady and sure. I pause in the kitchen doorway, soaking it in.
The front door swings open, and the evening rushes in with it. Grimm steps inside first, boots heavy on the floorboards, Beau right behind him with paint smudges streaked across his cheeks and arms.
“Hands,” Grimm says, pointing toward the sink like a drill sergeant.
Beau heaves an exaggerated sigh but drags a stool over anyway. “I barely touched the paint,” he protests, climbing up to reach the faucet.
“Mm-hmm,” Grimm answers, one eyebrow arched. “Then the barn walls must’ve painted themselves.”
I bite back a smile as I dry my hands on a dishtowel. Watching the three of them, my boys, my whole heart, fills me with a quiet that’s deeper than any silence. This is home. This is everything.
Dinner is easy—slow conversation, the scrape of forks, Beau chattering about rainbow dinosaurs on the barn wall while Rook listens with that half-smile that still knocks the air out of me. Grimm eats like he’s got a train to catch, but he keeps tossing Beau sly questions that make our kid laugh so hard he hiccups.
