Chapter 7 Calla
Iwake in his bed, heart pounding like I’ve been caught. The room is still—the kind of still that only happens after too much chaos. The storm outside has quieted, but the one inside me hasn’t.
Beau is warm beside me, his little face relaxed.
His breath flutters against my shoulder, one tiny hand still curled in the fabric of Rook’s flannel.
I shift carefully, trying not to wake him.
The mattress is worn in the center, familiar in a way that makes my throat tighten.
I used to sneak out of this room at midnight, through the window, over the balcony, into his arms. Now I’m waking up with my son in the bed and Rook asleep on the couch across the room.
He’s sprawled on his back, boots still on, arms folded over his chest like a corpse trying to play it cool.
The soft amber light from the hallway slips through the cracked door, catching the edge of his jaw and the mess of ink down his arm.
He looks too damn peaceful for a man who said nothing when Ash told him I’d be staying here.
For a man who gave up his bed without a word.
I swing my legs over the side, careful not to make a sound, and pad across the floor to the tiny bathroom.
The same one I used to rush into to fix my makeup or sneak a shower before climbing into his lap.
Everything’s smaller now. Or maybe I’m just more haunted.
I flick on the light and stare at myself in the mirror above the sink.
Same face. Same wild curls. Same haunted eyes.
But everything else has changed. The fluorescent light above the mirror flickers once, then steadies. I lean in, gripping the sides of the sink.
My face looks older now, sharper in the places that used to be soft. A mother’s face. A woman who has survived things no one in this damn clubhouse even knows about. But sometimes—like now—I see her. The girl I used to be.
Five Years Ago
The scent of him is still on my skin—cigarettes and cinnamon, sweat and lust.
“Fuck,” I whisper, dragging a brush through my tangled curls with one hand while holding my bra in the other.
Sunlight is spilling through the window now, sharp and golden and judgmental. I’d fallen asleep in his bed. Again. Pressed against him, bare and boneless after he worked me over in the dark, his hand clamped over my mouth to keep the sounds quiet.
I twist in front of the mirror, trying to find the zipper of my dress, already half-panic, half-regret. “I told my mom I’d be at mass by eight. She’s gonna kill me.”
Rook’s voice comes from the bed, low and lazy and smug. “Pretty sure God saw what you were doing at two a.m.”
I glare at him over my shoulder. “He also saw me fake it last week.”
Rook just laughs, full-bodied and unbothered, like there isn’t a single thing in the world that can touch him. “Didn’t fake it last night though.”
“No,” I mutter, cheeks burning. “No, I didn’t.”
I snatch my boots from the floor, practically hopping into them while still tugging the hem of my dress down. My necklace, —a delicate cross, —catches in the fabric. I untangle it as I head for the door.
“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.”
He lifts one brow. “Ash didn’t make you put on my shirt.”
I stand. “Don’t do this.”
“Then don’t lie to me.”
Beau shifts again, mumbling in his sleep. I hold up a hand, warning him. “You’ll wake him.”
He just tips his chin toward the couch, voice a low challenge. “Then stop whisper-yelling and come sit the fuck down.”
I hesitate. “Why?”
His mouth ticks at the corner. “Because if you’re gonna keep telling me this doesn’t mean anything, I’d rather hear it while you're next to me.”
I hate him for that. For the way he never raises his voice.
For the way he can still make me want to scream just by sitting there, arms sprawled across the back of the couch like he’s not breaking me apart.
I pad across the room and lower myself onto the cushion beside him.
There’s barely a foot of space between us. His thigh brushes mine.
“Happy now?” I whisper.
He shrugs. “Not even close.”
I sit stiffly, knees together, arms folded tight against my ribs like that might keep me from feeling his heat beside me. He doesn’t look at me. Just stares straight ahead, jaw flexing like he's biting something back.
I whisper, sharp, “Don’t look at me like that.”
He hums low. “Didn’t know I was.”
“You’re judging me.”
Now he turns, slow and deliberate. “I’m not judging you, Calla. I’m trying not to touch you.”
My breath catches. Stupid, stupid body. He’s always been dangerous—but the way he says my name like that? Like it tastes like whiskey and regret? It makes something in me unravel.
“You’re impossible,” I snap, voice barely audible.
“You’re infuriating,” he counters, just as quiet.
I glance at Beau. Still asleep, thank God. “We’re not doing this here.”
“No,” he says, leaning just slightly closer, “you’re not doing this. I’m just sitting here. Getting pushed away again.”
“You think I want to be here?” I whisper.
He barks a soft, bitter laugh. “You think I don’t see the way you look at me?”
“I’m not looking at you—”
“Then stop,” he growls.
I can’t. God, I can’t. He’s too close. Too steady.
Too everything I swore I’d never let myself want again.
His forearms are inked, veins roped beneath skin I used to kiss without shame.
His knuckles are scraped and healing. His lip—Jesus, his lip is split again.
He looks like a fight I want to lose myself in. But I can’t afford to.
“You don’t get to do this,” I whisper, angry now. At him. At me. “You gave me up.”
“I let you go,” he whispers back. “There’s a difference.”
“Oh, fuck off with your semantics.”
His jaw clenches. “Say it again.”
“What, fuck off? Gladly—”
“No. Say it like that again.” His eyes flick down to my mouth.
Goddamn it.
I tear my gaze away, back to the floor. “This doesn’t change anything.”
He leans in, so close his shoulder brushes mine, warm and solid. “Then why are you still wearing my shirt?”
“Because I didn’t have anything else!”
He smirks. “That’s not why.”
“I will scream,” I hiss. “I swear to God.”
He lowers his voice to a dangerous whisper. “Do it. Wake him up. Make me stop.”
We’re nose to nose now. The tension is a live wire sparking between our knees. I should move. I don’t.
“I hate you,” I breathe.
He tilts his head, just enough. “You never did.”
My next breath gets caught in the cradle of his mouth.
And then he kisses me. Hard. Quiet. Like it’s been bottled up for years, and this is the first crack in the dam.
My hands go to his chest before I can stop them, not to push him away—but to feel.
To remember. To lose. He kisses me like I’m still his. And I hate how much I want to be.
“I dreamed about it,” Rook mutters, voice rough, like it scraped the words from the back of his throat.
I blink, still breathless from the kiss. My lips are swollen, my pulse is a runaway train, and his forehead is nearly pressed to mine.
“What?” I whisper stupidly, because I heard him.
“Last night,” he says, lips brushing mine with every word. “You. Under me. Wrapped around me. So fucking warm.”
I shudder. He doesn’t stop.
“I woke up hard. Still hard, Calla. Like my body didn’t know it was a dream. Like it thought you were still mine.”
“You can’t say that.”
“I didn’t make you stop last night,” he whispers, eyes heavy with something wicked and raw. “You remember? You started it, and I let you. Because, fuck—I missed you.”
His hand is braced against the couch behind me, caging me in, his body a solid line of heat. Every inch of him crowds me without touching, and I can feel the ache between us like a loaded gun on the table.
“You were so goddamn wet,” he says, voice low and sinful. “Clenching around me like you’d never let go.”
“Stop,” I breathe, but I don’t move.
His nose brushes mine. “I felt like I was home.”
God help me, I want to cry. Or crawl into his lap. Or scream. His hand shifts—just barely grazing my thigh—and I flinch like it burned.
“Rook…” I warn.
His forehead presses against mine. “Say you didn’t feel it too. I dare you.”
My eyes slam shut.
“I shouldn’t have,” I whisper.
“But you did,” he says. “And I did. And I want to again.”
His lips graze my jaw, my cheek, lower… And then—
“Mama?”
We both freeze. Rook pulls back like he’s been tasered. I jerk away, heart crashing against my ribs. Beau sits up on the bed, hair a tangle of curls, sleepy eyes squinting at us. His stuffed fox is tucked under one arm, and his other hand rubs his cheek.
“What’re you and Rook doin’?” he mumbles.
I blink, heat rushing up my neck. “Uh—nothing, baby. Did we wake you up?”
Rook clears his throat and shifts, leaning back like he hadn’t just been whispering sinful things in my ear. “Sorry, bud. That one’s on me.”
Beau yawns wide and squeakily. “You were real close,” he says matter-of-factly, eyes still half-closed. “Like when the cows do nose kisses.”
I choke on a laugh and press my palm to my face.
Rook chuckles under his breath. “Guess we were, huh?”
“Were you kissin’ my mom?”
My jaw drops open, and Rook’s brows shoot up. “That’s a bold question for six in the morning.”
Beau shrugs and flops sideways on the bed. His little blue eyes filled with happiness. “I saw it on Bluey. The mom and dad kiss all the time.”
Rook grins, but I jab him with my elbow before he can say a word.
Beau nestles in, mumbling, “You can kiss her if you want, Rook. But only if she says yes.”
I exhale a shaky breath and glance sideways at him. He’s not looking at me—he’s focused on Beau now, face softer than I’ve ever seen it.
“Thanks for the permission, kid,” he murmurs. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
And fuck if I’m not completely wrecked by that.
Beau stretches his legs and yawns again, blinking up at the ceiling. “Hey, Rook?”
Rook hums low in his chest. “Yeah, kid?”
“Do you know who my dad is?”
The silence hits like a slammed door. I go still. So does Rook. He turns his head toward me—slow, careful—eyes searching mine. I can't breathe. Beau doesn’t notice. He’s too busy picking at the seam on his pajama pants, waiting for an answer like he just asked what’s for breakfast.
I slide off the couch before I can talk myself out of it. Feet hitting the floor, I fold myself next to Beau on the bed and brush the hair off his forehead. He looks at me with those same eyes I’ve memorized since the day he was born—mine, but not just mine.
“Yeah, baby,” I say softly. “Rook knows your dad.”
Beau tilts his head, curious. “Was he friends with him?”
I take a breath that shakes on the way out. “Beau… Rook is your dad.”
His mouth opens. Closes. He blinks once. “What?”
I don’t cry. I don’t. I just keep my voice steady. “I didn’t tell you before because I wanted to wait until it felt right. And maybe I waited too long. But it’s true. Rook is your dad.”
He looks at me. Then turns slowly to stare at Rook. “You’re my dad?”
Rook’s voice is low. Rough. “Yeah, bud. I am.”
Beau’s face scrunches like he’s trying to solve a puzzle he didn’t know he had the pieces for. He studies Rook like he’s never really looked at him before, eyes moving over the tattoos, the beard, the scars, and the soft weight in his shoulders.
“Whoa,” Beau breathes.
I let out a nervous laugh and rub his knee.
He turns back to me, then back to Rook. “Can I still call you Rook?”
Rook lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “If that’s what you want.”
Beau nods, thinking. Then: “Do I have to eat broccoli now?”
I laugh for real that time, pressing my forehead to his shoulder.
Rook grins, eyes glinting. “We’ll negotiate that later.”
Beau yawns again and leans into my side. “Okay,” he mumbles. “But just so you know… I already like you. Even before I knew you were my dad.”
And goddamn it—this time, I do cry.