Page 21 of The Bastard's Lily
“Same time next week, preacher’s daughter?” he teases, voice thick with sleep and sin.
I roll my eyes, but it’s useless. I’m already smiling.
“Shut up,” I whisper, breathless from the rush of getting dressed, the weight of the morning sun bleeding through the blinds like it knows our secrets.
He sits up slowly, sheets slipping down his chest, and just looks at me. Like I’m something holy. Like I hung the damn stars.
I pause at the door, fingers curled around the knob. I should’ve left five minutes ago, but I can’t make myself move. Not when he’s staring at me like that. Like I’m everything.
“I meant it,” he says. “About us. You know that, right?”
My heart thuds so loud I swear it echoes off the walls.
“I know,” I whisper.
And I do.
Because I meant it, too.
I loved him. With every part of me that wasn’t already cracked from carrying a name that never felt like mine. I loved him like the future wasn’t something to be afraid of. Like forever didn’t sound like a trap when it came from his mouth.
Present
The memory hits like a bruise under cold water. I shut off the light and step quietly into the bedroom again. Beau hasn’t moved. Rook is still on the couch, but his eyes are open now. Watching me. He doesn’t speak. Just stares. And I don’t know which version of me he sees.
The soft click of the bathroom door echoes louder than it should. I step barefoot across the cold wood floor, the hem of one of Rook’s old shirts brushing my thighs. It still smells like soap and something faintly smoky—like the bonfires behind the clubhouse and the hoodie I used to sleep in just to feel less alone.
Beau is curled under the covers, peaceful. Safe. I take one last glance to be sure, then sit on the edge of the bed and face the couch. That same heavy silence stretches between us like it used to when we didn’t know if we were about to fight or fuck or both.
“You could’ve told Ash no,” I whisper, keeping my voice low, so it doesn’t carry past the door. “It’s your room.”
“He didn’t ask,” Rook mutters, sitting up slowly. “He told.”
I almost smile, but it fades before it reaches my mouth. “Still. You didn’t have to say yes.”
“I didn’t,” he says, voice flat. “I just didn’t say no.”
The silence crackles between us again. I grip the edge of the mattress to keep from unraveling. “This doesn’t mean anything,” I say, more to myself than him. “Me being in here.”
Rook leans forward, forearms on his knees. “You keep saying that like you want me to believe it.”
I stare at him. “I do.”
He tilts his head. “Then why are you wearing my shirt?”
I look down. “I’m not the one who ripped it off.”
The soft sound of Beau shifting under the blanket yanks me back to reality. His stuffed fox slips from his grasp, and I gently tuck it back beneath his chin. Rook doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches me with that unreadable stare that makes my chest feel too tight.
I whisper, “This doesn’t mean anything.”
He leans his head back against the couch, still speaking low. “You said that already.”
“I meant it.”
“You’re wearing my shirt. In my bed.”
I snap my head up. “Ash made me stay.”
