Chapter 23 Calla
The bell over the door gives a shy little chime when I push it open. For a second, I just stand there, breathing in the quiet.
Fresh paint still clings to the walls, faint under the sharper bite of antiseptic and the bitter drip of coffee from the machine in the corner. Sunlight slides across the worn floorboards, pooling around a single calla lily in a glass jar on the front desk.
My fingers trace the cool edge of the counter. Mine. All of it. It doesn’t look like much, just two rooms and a hallway, but it’s clean, it’s ready, and for the first time in years, the space around me feels steady.
Behind me, the door shuts with a soft click. Outside, a bike rumbles once and fades. I know that sound. Vice handled the lease. Grimm promised to keep an eye out. They call it The Lily. I call it proof that we survived.
I slip behind the counter and start a slow lap through the rooms, fingertips grazing fresh drywall like I still don’t believe it’s real. The Lily isn’t just a clinic. It’s my clinic.
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 it Calla’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 word home lands 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 to Closed, 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.
When the plates are cleared, Grimm pushes back from the table and ruffles Beau’s hair. “Alright, little man, I’m out. Early run tomorrow.”
Beau beams up at him. “Night, Uncle Grimm!”
“Night, kiddo.” He gives me a nod, a quiet goodnight that says everything without words, then disappears into the cool dark.
The house softens after the door clicks shut. Rook gathers the last of the dishes while I wipe the counters, Beau leaning against my hip, fighting a yawn.
“Alright, fox,” I murmur, smoothing his hair. “Bath, then bed.”
He nods, already half asleep as Rook scoops him up, our son’s stuffed fox dangling from one small fist. I trail after them, the steady rhythm of Rook’s footsteps and Beau’s sleepy hum filling the hallway.
The three of us move through the familiar routine—warm bathwater, clean pajamas, goodnight kisses—until Beau is tucked between fresh sheets, breathing deep and even.
Rook reaches across him to squeeze my hand, eyes dark and soft. “Let’s get you to bed, too,” he whispers.
For the first time all day, I let my shoulders drop. Home. My boys. Nothing else matters. I linger a moment longer beside Beau’s bed, brushing a thumb across his cheek. He doesn’t stir. The tiny fox is tucked tight under his arm, the rise and fall of his chest steady as a heartbeat.
Rook’s hand slides to the small of my back. “C’mon, Calla,” he murmurs, voice low and rough from the day. “Bed.”
We move down the hall in silence; the lights dim behind us one by one. In our room, the night air is cool, and the sheets smell faintly of pine and home. Rook pulls me close the second we settle, his arm heavy across my waist, his breath warm against my neck.
This is everything I fought for—the clinic, the cabin, the man who never stopped loving me, the boy we built together. My family. My forever. I close my eyes, his heartbeat against my spine, and let the quiet of our life wrap around me like a promise.