Chapter 19 Calla
Morning slides in quietly, soft as a secret.
I move through the clubhouse on bare feet, checking room after room.
Boar’s shoulder is wrapped and already bruising, but he grins when I lean in—“Good as new, Nurse Calla.” Frost and Wren are still out cold, bandages clean.
Ash gives me a two-finger salute from the hallway, eyes shadowed but steady.
Everyone’s breathing. Everyone’s here. For now, that’s enough.
When I finally ease open Rook’s door, the sight stops me.
Beau had wriggled between us sometime before dawn, small hand fisted in Rook’s shirt like he climbed there in his sleep and never let go.
Rook’s arm is draped across him, the rise and fall of their chests almost in sync.
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 wake either 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 little Yeti patch 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.
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 pure calculation, 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 upstairs lounge 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.
When his eyes finally meet mine, the look in them is enough to steal the air from my lungs. Deadly. Focused. If anyone touches Beau before we find him, there won’t be a place on this earth safe enough to hide.
Engines growl in the yard, low and hungry. Boots thud across the floor above us as riders take their posts. The clubhouse feels like the eye of a storm—every breath sharp, every sound a warning.
Yeti checks the magazine on his pistol and gives me a single nod, the kind that carries decades of promise. Grimm slips out the side door without a word, vanishing into the night like a ghost on the trail.
Across the room, Rook hasn’t moved. He leans against the wall, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the door as if sheer will could drag Beau back through it. The quiet around him is a different kind of violence—slow, certain, unshakable.
I press my palms flat on the table, steady and cold. We will find him. We will end this.
Ash steps into the center of the room, voice a low command. “Montreal’s here. Ontario’s ten minutes out. We ride the second Grimm calls it.”
Rook finally speaks, the words a quiet blade. “Whoever took our boy has no idea what they just started.”
The room goes still, the promise hanging there like thunder. I straighten, heart steady, the taste of resolve sharp on my tongue. Let them come.
Let them whisper about the Royal Bastards all they want—they haven’t met Calla Lily Blake, the girl who brought Beau into this world bloody and screaming and has kept him safe ever since.
And God help the fools who try to take him from me now.