Chapter 21 Calla
Beau is safe. The clubhouse 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 right behind 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 patch winking 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 soft click followed 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.
Rook brushes a hand over our son’s hair, then meets my eyes. The lines of worry haven’t left his face, but something in his shoulders finally loosens.
“Come on,” he whispers.
We slip into the bathroom together. The shower spray is warm and steady, a low whisper against the tile. I stand beneath it with him, the night’s smoke and dirt rinsing away in slow rivulets.
No words at first, just the sound of water and our breathing. His hands find mine, fingers lacing tight, and he presses his forehead to mine.
“I thought I lost everything,” he murmurs.
“You didn’t,” I whisper back. “We’re here.”
The world narrows to the quiet between us, the steam curling around our faces, the weight of survival heavy and strangely light all at once. For a long time, we simply stand there, letting the water wash away the night, holding on to the only thing that matters—each other.
The water runs hot and steady, a soft roar that makes the rest of the world feel far away. Rook’s forehead stays pressed to mine, breath warm against my cheek.
“I need you to know,” he says finally, voice low and rough. “Up there…I killed two men.”
I draw back just enough to see his eyes.
They’re dark, unreadable. “They would’ve taken Beau.
Taken you. I didn’t think—I just…did it.
And I’d do it again.” He swallows hard, a muscle ticking in his jaw.
“You should be scared of me. I’ve done terrible things, Calla. Things you don’t come back from.”
I reach up, slide my palms along the sides of his face until my thumbs rest against the damp stubble of his jaw. “You protected our son,” I say, steady as the water beating down around us. “You protected all of us.”
He closes his eyes like the words hurt more than the bullets. “Still should scare you.”
I shake my head, holding him tighter. “You don’t scare me, Rook. Not now. Not ever.”
For a long moment, neither of us moves, the sound of the shower the only witness to the truth between us.
We shut off the water and step into the cool air of the room, steam curling around us like a fading storm.
Rook towels his hair, the muscles of his back shifting under the faint light.
Boxers cling low on his hips, the bandage at his ribs stark against his skin.
I pull one of his shirts over my head; the hem brushes my thighs, and I slip beneath the blankets. He joins me a heartbeat later, warm and solid, an arm sliding around my waist until we’re a single, steady breath.
“I love you,” he murmurs against my temple.
“I love you too,” I whisper back, eyes closing as the weight of the day finally loosens.
The floor creaks softly. Beau climbs onto the bed without a word, his stuffed fox tucked under one arm. He wiggles between us, curls close, and looks up with heavy lids.
“Love you, Mama. Love you, Dada,” he mumbles, already half-asleep.
Rook goes rigid for a second, then exhales a shaky breath, his forehead pressing to Beau’s hair. I feel the tremor in him, the one that almost breaks into a sob.
My own tears slip free, quiet and warm. I wrap them both in my arms, the three of us folded together in the dark, and finally—finally—we let the night go.