Chapter 9 Calla #2
Rook’s face cracks, just a little. Enough for me to see the storm behind his steady front.
“I can do that, bug.”
Beau looks between us, then nods, solemn like a soldier. “Okay. I’ll get my coloring stuff and be real quiet.”
I swallow the lump rising in my throat and nod once. “Put the muffins on the counter to cool. Stay in the kitchen. No peeking, okay?”
He gives me a tiny salute. “Yes, ma’am.”
Rook watches the exchange, jaw ticking.
“You sure about this?” I ask him quietly.
“No.” He looks me dead in the eye. “But he’s bleeding wicked bad up at the clubhouse.”
I pack fast—gauze, tape, alcohol wipes, gloves. Scissors. Stitch kit. Everything I might need, plus the things I hope I don’t.
The metal box clanks as I drop it into the passenger seat of the truck.
I slam the door hard enough to shake off the nerves I don’t have time to feel.
Beau stands at the edge of the porch, his little fox clutched to his chest, eyes bouncing between me and Rook.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t have to. The questions are all there, stamped across his face.
And Rook—he’s just still. Like he’s afraid to move and shatter whatever truce we’re balancing on. I give them both a nod. Not gentle. Not soft. But enough.
“Let’s go.”
The truck door creaks open. Beau climbs in first, small and quiet. Rook gets on his bike, not saying a word. The storm’s coming again. I can feel it.
I pull into the clubhouse lot, gravel popping under the tires, the engine ticking as it cools. My fingers tighten around the wheel. I don’t even put the truck in park before Beau’s already moving, unbuckling, grabbing his backpack like we’re just getting home from school.
But we’re not. We're here. I shift into park and cut the engine. Rook’s bike rumbles behind us and settles into a low idle before he kills it.
I turn toward Beau. He’s slow today—not dragging his feet, not fighting, just…
quiet. Methodical. He loops the strap of his backpack over one shoulder, then reaches for his lunchbox.
Then, the little stuffed fox wedged between the seats.
He holds it tight, thumb rubbing over the worn fabric ear like it might tell him what to do next.
“You okay?” I ask softly.
He nods. Doesn’t look up. The driver’s door creaks as I push it open, but before I can step out, Rook is already there. Helmet off, sweat-slick hair flattened to his head, jaw set.
“Go,” he says quietly. “Boar’s askin’ for you.”
I glance at Beau.
Rook follows my eyes. “I’ve got him, Calli.”
That nickname—that old one—hits like a punch and a balm all at once. I hesitate. Beau hugs his fox tighter.
“Hey,” Rook says, softer now, crouching down beside the open door. “You comin’, Little Man?”
Beau peeks up at him. Just a glance. Then back down again. Rook doesn’t reach for him, doesn’t crowd him. Just waits. Calm. Solid. Beau finally nods.
I don’t look back. Not because I don’t want to, but because if I see Beau hesitate, if I see even a flicker of nerves cross his sweet little face, I’ll fold. My chest is already tight from the way Rook knelt down and offered his hand like Beau was something fragile and important.
He is.
I make it through the front doors and into the main room, where everything smells like leather and wood polish and the kind of secrets that get passed down in blood.
The air’s heavier here. Quieter than it should be.
Grimm steps out from the hallway, wiping his hands on a rag that used to be white and isn’t anymore.
“They’re in the back,” he says. His tone is even, but I can see it in his jaw—the tension. The worry.
“How bad is it?” I ask, already adjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just walks with me, slow and steady. “Not like last time,” he finally mutters.
I don’t ask what last time means. I already know what happens behind these closed doors.
The back room is dim, with the door propped open by what looks like a busted dining chair.
Boar’s perched on the edge of a table, fingers braced on his knees, while Wren stalks the far side like a caged animal.
Ash stands near the sink, shirt off, blood on his knuckles, and something darker in his eyes.
Boar spots me first. “Little Calla.”
“Boar.” I set my bag down beside him, already pulling on gloves. “Tell me what happened.”
He clears his throat, gaze flicking toward the door like he’s checking who else might be listening. “Was chasing some… people down. ATV flipped. I went rolling down an embankment.” He pauses. “Shoulder feels off. Got some blood coming from my arm and up here.” He nods vaguely to his shoulder.
That’s all he gives me. No names. No reasons. No specifics. I don’t ask for more.
“Okay.” I cut through the fabric of his shirt with trauma shears, peeling it back to reveal the damage. The gash is ugly—jagged, wide, maybe six inches. I can already see exposed muscle and torn skin. His shoulder looks wrong too, like it’s sitting in the socket sideways.
“You’ll need stitches. A lot, and I think your shoulder’s dislocated.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice tight. “Figured.”
I nod once and keep moving. No commentary. No small talk. I inject lidocaine around the wound and wait for the numbness to set in. I don’t look up when the door creaks behind me. I don’t flinch when someone mutters something low in the hallway. I just sew.
He watches me work like I’m a stranger—and maybe I am.
But his blood still stains my hands. I’m five stitches in when the door swings open again, hinges groaning like they’re just as irritated as I am.
I don’t look up—Boar’s shoulder is a mess, and I’m halfway through anchoring the worst of it.
But I hear the boots. Two sets. Heavy steps, light scuff. Someone drags their heel. Lazy.
“You live in this room now, Boar?” Grimm’s voice is all gravel and amusement.
“Better than dyin’ in a ditch,” Boar grunts, clenching his jaw as I tie off another knot.
“Hold still,” I murmur, wiping blood from the edge of his chest with a saline-soaked pad. I can feel Grimm watching me, but he doesn’t say anything at first.
A chair scrapes, and I know he’s sitting behind me. “Knew you’d come back, eventually.” Grimm finally says, tone casual.
“Yeah, well.” I thread the needle again, not looking at him. “I didn’t come back for you.”
Boar chuckles low and pained. Grimm laughs outright.
“Same mouth,” Grimm says, whistling through his teeth. “Little more grown.”
I don’t answer. My hands are steady, my focus pinned to the meat of the wound.
I count each stitch out loud in my head.
Seven. Eight. The door opens again. Someone else.
Then two more. They come and go—checking on Boar, making stupid jokes, talking over me like I’m just another fixture in the room.
Nobody says "Calla." Nobody says shit. They just treat me like I never left. Like I’m still that girl patching up scraped knuckles after bar fights. Except I’m not.
I finish the last stitch and reach for the shoulder. “This is gonna suck.”
“Already sucks,” Boar mutters, sweat beading along his temple.
“On three,” I say. Then I pop the joint back into place on two.
He lets out a strangled grunt, nearly bites his own tongue, but the joint slides in with a slick clunk, and I press my palm to hold it stable while he breathes through it.
“Asshole move,” he groans.
“I lied,” I say. “Sue me.”
Grimm whistles again, impressed. “You gonna start charging us for this, or is it still free for friends?”
“Who said we’re friends?” I ask, taping Boar’s shoulder and strapping it into a sling.
Grimm grins. I can feel it without turning around. Then I notice him. In the corner. The prospect. He hasn’t said a word. Hasn’t moved either. Just leaned against the wall near the cabinets like a damn ghost. His eyes don’t leave me, not even when I glance up and catch him looking.
It’s not creepy exactly, but it’s not respectful either. It’s something else. Assessing. Measuring. Like he’s trying to figure out where I fit. Or whether I do at all. I press a fresh bandage to Boar’s wound a little harder than necessary.
“You need something?” I ask, eyes cutting toward the prospect.
He doesn’t answer. Just shakes his head once.
Grimm snorts. “Don’t mind him. He doesn’t talk. Not unless you kick him.”
“Noted.” I slap a sterile pad into Boar’s good hand. “Change that every twelve hours. Don’t rip the stitches open again, or I’ll staple you shut next time.”
“You always this sweet?” Boar asks.
I give him a tight smile. “Only when I’m home.”
I wipe my hands on a rag and drop the medical bag onto the counter with a quiet thunk. Boar’s patched up, shoulder back in place, stitched, bandaged, and groaning under his breath like it’s the end of the world. It’s not. He’s fine. Just dramatic.
Grimm had stayed behind while I worked, tossing out casual conversation like no time had passed at all. And the others wandered in and out—nodding, smirking, gruff hellos—like I hadn’t vanished for five years and come back with a kid that looks just like his father.
But it’s the prospect who sets my nerves on edge.
He didn’t say anything wrong. Didn’t do anything, really.
Just lingered too long when I bent over Boar’s shoulder, eyes too sharp, smirk a little too smug.
The second I told him to hand me gauze, he jumped like he got caught sneaking into a church basement.
Something about him makes my skin pull tight.
I don’t dwell on it. Don’t have time to.
Because I step out into the main room, and everything in me stills.
Rook’s on the floor, knees bent, arm braced to the side.
His kutte’s stretched across his back, ink spilling down both arms. He’s big.
Broad. Dangerous by every metric that matters—scars, muscle, scowl.
One of those men you cross the street to avoid.
But he’s got a tiny crayon in his hand. Beau leans into his side, tongue poked out in concentration as he colors half a dinosaur purple and tries to decide if the other half needs to be rainbow. Puzzle pieces are scattered to the side. One’s stuck to Rook’s knee.
And for a minute, neither of them sees me. My heart clenches. Because no one—not even me—would look at that man and think he belongs on the floor with a four-year-old and a coloring book. But here he is. Steady. Patient. Letting Beau boss him around like he’s the assistant instead of the outlaw.
And Beau… He’s smiling. Like he’s never done anything else.
Like this is normal. Like Rook’s his. Ours.
My throat tightens as I watch, hands still stained with Boar’s blood, heart twisted up in too many directions.
Because this—this—was never supposed to happen.
But here we are. And I can’t tell if it makes me want to cry or run. Or finally breathe.
Rook looks up. And damn it, he smiles. Not the cocky one.
Not the one that curls like smoke at the edge of his mouth when he’s getting into trouble or about to throw a punch.
No, this one is full. Wide. Honest. It’s the kind of smile that makes my ribs feel too tight.
Like maybe my body’s not built to hold the way he looks at me right now.
His eyes trace me slowly, like he’s memorizing all the new pieces of me, cataloguing the places time touched, just in case I vanish again.
Then he stands. Tattooed arms flex, kutte creaking as he rises off the floor.
I catch the way his knees crack, the way his jaw tightens from the pain I know he’s still carrying.
But he doesn’t make a sound. Doesn’t even hesitate.
Just moves toward me like he’s got gravity on his side.
Grimm drops into his spot without a word, casually reaching for a crayon like he’s been coloring with four-year-olds his whole damn life.
“Whatcha got here, little man?” Grimm asks, ruffling Beau’s curls.
“Stegosaurus,” Beau says proudly. “But it’s rainbow.”
Grimm chuckles, not missing a beat. “Love that for him.”
I should say something. To Beau. To Grimm. To Rook. But all I can do is watch as Rook closes the space between us with that quiet, lethal calm he always carried. The calm that used to make me feel so goddamn safe.
I brace myself as he gets close, not sure if I’m about to be kissed, crushed, or completely undone. But all he does is stop in front of me. Big. Warm. Familiar in all the ways that hurt the most.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low and rough like gravel softened by rain.
And I swear to God that stupid smile is still there. Like he’s seeing something worth smiling for. Something worth staying for. He doesn’t say anything right away. Just stands there in front of me like a choice I haven’t figured out how to make yet. Then—
“Dinner,” he says, voice a little raspier now. “Tomorrow night. Just us. We need to talk, Calla.”
I lift a brow. He doesn’t flinch.
“I wanna figure things out,” he adds. “About… all of this. About Beau. About you and me.”
The air tightens around us, but he keeps going.
“I wanna be in his life, really in it. I’ve missed out on everything, Calli. I want to be a good dad.”
Behind him, Beau’s little voice pipes up—like the universe couldn’t have timed it better. “Grimm, look! I made a rainbow T-Rex too!”
Grimm laughs, already cross-legged on the floor with a second page. “That dino looks dangerous and inclusive. Love it.”
Rook doesn’t look away from me. Not even a blink. “I’m not asking for everything at once,” he says. “Just dinner.” A pause. “Let me prove I’m here for Beau.”
I swallow, the weight of it catching in my throat. Then Grimm glances up from the floor and casually throws a wrench into the whole damn moment.
“I’ll watch the kid,” he offers. “Tomorrow night. You two go. Beau and I’ll order pizza, maybe build a pillow fort. Guy stuff.”
Beau gasps like that’s the greatest thing he’s ever heard. “YES! Can we have gummy worms and root beer, too?”
Grimm grins. “Obviously.”
I look back at Rook. He’s still waiting. Still holding that stupid gorgeous smile like he’s not sure I’ll say yes.
I sigh. “Fine.”
His whole face lights up. And I hate how easy it is to smile back. Because I already know this isn’t just dinner. It’s a fuse—lit and burning. And I’m standing way too close to the fire.