Chapter 9 Calla
Beau’s curled up beside me on the couch, one arm flung over my middle like I might disappear if he lets go. His fox is tucked under his chin. He’s still got syrup in his curls from breakfast, but I can’t bring myself to wake him. Not yet.
I should feel safe here. Should feel grateful that we made it home in one piece after the mess of a night we had. But my hands won’t stop shaking. And there’s a knot in my chest that no amount of deep breathing untangles.
Yesterday cracked something open. Not just in Rook.
Not just in me. In Beau too. He hasn’t said much since we left the clubhouse.
Just quiet little hums and whispered questions like, “Do all daddies look like that?” and “Are we gonna see him again?” I gave him the same answer both times: “We’ll see. ” I don’t know what else to say.
Because Rook kissed me like a promise and then tore me apart with his mouth, not even twenty-four hours later. Because I saw what that boy meant to him—means to him. But it doesn’t erase that sliver of doubt and suspicion I heard in his voice.
I press my palm to Beau’s back, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath.
He walked through the goddamn woods in a storm.
A four-year-old. Following tracks like some pint-sized tracker, stubborn as sin and just as reckless.
And Rook? Rook still looked at me like I handed him the world and then yanked it away. I don’t know what to do with that.
I ease off the couch, careful not to jostle Beau. The second my feet hit the floor, my body moves on instinct. Kitchen. Flour. Sugar. The quiet rituals of survival.
I pull my hair up into a knot and roll up my sleeves. No recipe, just muscle memory and emotion guiding every motion. Banana bread, maybe. Banana chocolate chip muffins, if we’ve got any left in the freezer. Something sweet. Something warm. Something I can control.
Because everything else? A goddamn mess.
I stir harder than I need to, wooden spoon clacking against the bowl. My jaw tightens as the memory plays on loop—Rook’s arms around Beau the moment I burst into that damn clubhouse. He shielded him without hesitation, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he knew.
And then—he kissed me. Like a man starved.
Like I was his last breath. And he fucked me like he owned me.
Like five years hadn’t passed. But he didn’t hesitate to give us his bed.
No growl. No demand. No rules or posturing.
Just… pulled back the sheets and left the light on.
Stayed on the goddamn couch with nothing but an extra blanket and his pride.
And it was almost enough to make me forget.
Until that look in his eye—sharp, suspicious—the second he asked how Beau got to the clubhouse.
Like I would’ve just let our son wander through the fucking woods alone.
Would’ve. Because that’s who I was to him now.
Reckless. Careless. Unfit. Then he had the audacity to lecture me about safety.
Safety. From the man who is in a goddam motorcycle gang!
The oven dings, and I flinch, realizing I’d turned it on without noticing. The batter’s still half mixed, my hand trembling where it grips the spoon. I take a breath. Then another. Because Beau’s awake now, blinking at me from the couch, curls wild and eyes soft.
I force a smile and wipe my hands on my apron. “Hey, lovebug. How ‘bout muffins for lunch?”
I slide the muffin tin into the oven just as the soft slap of bare feet echoes behind me.
Beau stands there rubbing one eye, his fox clutched under one arm like a soldier reporting for duty.
His curls are wild, sticking in every direction, and he’s still wearing the oversized tee he insisted on sleeping in—Rook’s, of course.
The sleeves hang off his arms like wings.
“You’re bakin’ again,” he mumbles through a yawn.
I smile and tap the timer. “Stress muffins.”
Beau climbs up onto the stool at the counter and rests his cheek on his stuffed fox’s head. “Are they banana?”
“With chocolate chips.”
“Yesss.” He pumps a tiny fist and then lays his head down dramatically. “This is the best day ever.”
I chuckle under my breath, pouring a glass of milk and sliding it his way. My fingers brush his, and something in my chest tightens. He’s too soft for all this. Too gentle. He deserves sticky tables and sunshine.
He sips, then licks the milk from his lips. “Mama?”
“Hmm?”
He fiddles with the tail of his fox. Doesn’t look at me. “Is Rook gonna come visit us here in our home?”
My breath catches. Just a flicker. Just long enough to sting. I keep my back turned, fiddling with the muffin tin on the stove like it needs rearranging.
“Why do you ask, bug?”
He shrugs, still not looking up. “He said I got his smile.”
I close my eyes. It’s soft. Almost whispered.
But it lands like a punch. That kind of truth never comes quiet, no matter how small the voice.
I take a slow breath. Then another. Then turn.
Beau’s still playing with the stuffed fox, tracing the tail between his fingers like it holds answers he’s too young to ask out loud.
“You do,” I say gently, kneeling in front of him. “You’ve got my eyes, and his smile, and a heart that’s all your own. The best parts of us both.”
He frowns. “Then how come he don’t live here? How come I don’t know him?”
I reach for the oven mitts, blinking fast. The muffins are almost done, but Beau’s words sear hotter than the preheat setting.
“I was really young when I had you,” I say, turning and crouching beside him. “Still a teenager. And I was scared. I had to go somewhere far away to keep you safe. Somewhere Rook couldn’t be.”
Beau’s brow furrows, but his fingers don’t stop playing with the fox. “Why?”
“Because sometimes grown-ups mess things up before they even get the chance to fix them,” I say, brushing his curls back. “And I didn’t want anyone else messing you up. You were the one good thing I had. So I kept you all to myself for a while.”
He nods, like he’s trying to understand but isn’t quite there yet. Then he asks, voice small and curious, “Do I gotta call him Dad?”
My heart squeezes. I shake my head, smiling through the sting in my chest. “No, baby. You don’t have to call him anything you don’t want to.”
He thinks about that. Really thinks. Then he says, “What if I wanna call him Dada?”
That’s it. The tears I’ve been holding back finally fall, soft and silent as I lean in and kiss the top of his head. “I think that’s something you and Rook should talk about together,” I whisper.
Beau grins, like it’s already decided. Like it was never a question. He hops down from the stool and scampers off to the coffee table, dragging his backpack behind him. I hear the zipper, the rustle of crayons, the thunk of his sketch pad. His little fox gets a seat of honor beside him.
I check the muffins, then turn the oven off and crack the door. Letting them cool. And then I just… stand there. One hand on the counter. The other pressed flat over my chest like I’m holding my damn heart in place.
Because it’s too much. It’s all too fucking much. He shouldn’t have had to ask that. Shouldn’t have had to wonder. Shouldn’t have gone four years without knowing the man who gave him that same pouty bottom lip and little smirk.
And Rook— God, Rook. He missed all of it.
First steps. First words. All the little things that hurt more when they’re gone than when they’re happening.
Because back then, I told myself I was strong.
That I was doing what needed to be done.
That I couldn’t give Beau a father who wasn’t ready. Or so I thought…
But now? Now I’m just angry. Not at Rook. Not really. Not even at myself, though I know I shoulder some of it. I’m angry that we never got the chance. That my mother and father ripped away any chance we had at trying this whole family thing together.
I wipe at my eyes with the heel of my hand and sniff hard, forcing myself to breathe through the wave. Because I don’t get to fall apart. Not in front of Beau. Not when the muffins are cooling and the crayons are already strewn across the floor and he’s humming some song he made up on the spot.
But I ache—for all three of us. For the girl I used to be, the man I tried to forget, and the little boy caught in between.
The low, rumbling growl of a motorcycle creeps up the road before I even realize I’m holding my breath. It starts as a hum in my chest. Then a tremble in the floorboards. Then Beau is up like a shot, crayons flying, face pressed to the window beside the front door.
“Mommy! A bike!”
I grab him before he can unlatch the lock, arm curling around his chest as I pull him back, heart slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to claw its way out.
“Wait,” I whisper, eyes still locked on the front path. “Let me see who it is first.”
The bike skids in fast, kicking up a cloud of dust behind the tires.
Black. Loud. Familiar. My breath snags as the engine cuts off and the rider dismounts with violent precision.
Rook. He doesn’t knock. Doesn’t hesitate.
He storms up the steps and throws open the front door like he owns the damn hinges.
“You—” I snap, voice low and venomous, “—do not get to show up here like this. How the hell do you even know where—”
“Boar’s hurt.” His voice slices through mine. Cold. Flat. Urgent. “We need help.”
My mouth goes dry. “What?”
“He flipped his ATV, cut up real bad.”
“Then take him to the damn hospital!” I shoot back. “Why are you here?”
“Calla,” he growls, eyes boring into mine. “You know we don’t go there.”
My stomach drops. I do know.
“Mommy…” Beau tugs on my hand, eyes wide, scared. “Is the man hurt bad?”
I crouch to his level, brushing his hair back. “Yeah, baby. He is.”
Beau looks up at me, brows scrunched, voice soft. “Can you fix him like you fixed me when I fell at the pond?”