Chapter 12 Rook #2
Calla tilts her face up, and I steal a slower kiss—warm, lingering, enough to carry me through the miles ahead. “Back tonight,” I promise against her skin. “Lock the doors.”
Her fingers tighten on my kutte for half a heartbeat, then she nods. “Ride safe, Rook.”
The Royal Bastards are already rumbling at the end of the drive when I swing a leg over the bike.
Engines growl low as we roll north, the crisp October air cutting sharp through the trees.
The route to Pittsburgh isn’t long, but it’s lonely—dense woods, black lakes, dirt roads that disappear into Canada if you blink.
Tonight’s job isn’t flashy. Guns for a local militia that thinks the government’s breathing too heavy down their necks. Cash up front, no questions asked. Grimm’s got the crates strapped tight to the chase truck, and the rest of us run flank.
Miles blur under the tires. Pines whip past in a blur of shadow and silver moonlight, the cold settling into my knuckles. Every sense stays wired, watching for blue lights, rival colors, anything that smells off.
It’s supposed to be a clean run. But the deeper we push into the backcountry, the heavier the air gets.
Like the woods already know something’s waiting.
The road narrows to little more than a scar through the trees—pines crowding close, branches clawing at the night.
Our headlights cut ragged tunnels of light through the fog, but the dark feels heavier the farther we go.
“This is deeper than usual,” Grimm mutters over comms.
“Militia wanted a new spot,” I answer. “Off-grid.”
Miles crawl by. The asphalt gives up to cracked tar, then to dirt. Tires kick stones into the silence. Even the forest sounds wrong—no crickets, no owls, just the low growl of engines and the distant rush of unseen water.
Then the first shot cracks.
A single pop that echoes like a whip. One of our tail riders swerves hard; a round smacks the trunk of a birch with a wet thud.
Headlights flare, brakes squeal, and the night explodes.
Figures pour from the tree line—dark hoods, camo, rifles flashing in the high beams. Not the militia we were meeting.
“Ambush!” Grimm roars.
I drop the bike, draw, and the woods ignite with muzzle flashes. Sparks spit off wet bark. The air tastes like copper and gunpowder. Another shot—someone goes down with a grunt. I don’t look to see who.
I push forward, boots sliding in mud and pine needles. A man lunges from the brush; I catch his rifle barrel, drive my blade up under his vest. Hot blood slicks my knuckles before he even hits the ground.
The night turns into a strobe of violence—gunfire, shouted orders, the sickening crunch of metal against bone. Smoke and cordite choke the air. A crate of rifles tips from the chase truck and bursts open, steel clattering across the dirt like thrown bones.
“Fall back to the ridge!” Grimm yells.
I grab Wren by the kutte and drag him toward the bikes, bullets tearing bark overhead. Engines scream back to life, tires chewing mud as we rip out of the kill zone, the forest behind us still spitting fire. When we finally break onto open road, hearts still hammering, I glance back.
Through the trees, a fence line glows faint and hellish—a massive scorpion, charred black and still smoking. The Bloody Scorpions’ calling card. Berlin just got a war.
The clubhouse smells like oil and wood smoke when we roll in, engines still ticking hot. Every brother’s accounted for—cuts, bruises, a few torn vests, nothing we can’t patch ourselves. But the adrenaline’s still riding high, sharp as broken glass.
Ash stands at the head of the table the second we file into church. “Bloody Scorpions,” he says, voice low and lethal. “They torched our fence and ambushed a Berlin run. That’s a declaration.”
Chairs scrape. Grimm mutters a curse. Wren flexes his split knuckles and grins like it’s personal. From the shadowed corner, Yeti clears his throat. The old man’s hunched in his worn kutte, beard gone silver, eyes still wolf-bright. Retired or not, when he speaks, the room leans in.
“Bulldog warned us,” he rasps, voice rough as the trail dust. “Back when he gave me the blessing to plant this chapter here, he said the Scorpions don’t die easy.
Told me Berlin was a good hideout—the snowmobile trails run clean into Canada if you know the cuts—but he made it clear: Sooner or later, somebody’d try to take it back. ”
Ash nods once, the weight of his father’s words settling over the table. “Well, looks like ‘sooner’ just showed up.”
A low growl of agreement circles the room. The smell of blood and gasoline thickens.
Yeti tips his coffee like its whiskey, gaze fixed on the map tacked to the wall. “Bulldog built a nation that doesn’t scare easy. Remember that. We hold the line.”
Ash plants his palms on the table, eyes raking across every brother. “We lock it down. We send word to National when the time’s right. For now—we watch, we tighten routes, and when the Scorpions come sniffing again, we remind them whose colors own this mountain.”
The room answers in a rumble of leather and steel. Berlin is ours. And tonight, every man here is ready to bleed to keep it.
Church breaks with a low rumble of engines and tired curses. Ash’s orders still echo in my head—lock it down, keep eyes open—but all I can think about is getting home.
The ride back to Calla’s is a blur of cold asphalt and darker woods. My hands are sticky on the bars, knuckles split and faintly tacky with dried blood. Minor hit from the ambush, nothing serious, but it smells like iron every time the wind shifts.
Her porch light cuts through the trees as I roll in. She’s already on the steps, sweater wrapped tight, eyes searching the dark before I even kill the engine. Beau’s beside her in dinosaur pajamas, stuffed fox clutched like a tiny sentinel. The kid’s shoulders sag with relief when he spots me.
I swing off the bike, and she’s there before I can speak, palm flat to my chest. “You’re late,” she whispers, voice thin but steady. “And you’re—Rook, you’re bleeding.”
“Not mine,” I murmur, brushing a thumb along her jaw. “Mostly.”
Her gaze darts over me, cataloging every cut, every smear of dried red. Beau edges closer, wide-eyed.
“You okay, Dad?” he asks, small but sure.
That one word digs deep, steadies everything. “I’m okay, little man,” I tell him, crouching enough to meet his eyes. “Promise.”
Calla exhales, a shaky sound that tells me she’s been holding her breath since sunset. She presses her forehead to mine, fingers threading into my jacket like she might never let go. Home. Finally.
The cabin smells like wood smoke and vanilla when we step inside.
I kick off my boots at the door, the day’s weight settling somewhere deep in my shoulders.
Beau yawns so wide it nearly swallows his little fox.
Calla scoops him up, and I follow them down the hall.
We get him into bed together—her tucking the blanket under his chin; me smoothing his wild hair.
He’s asleep before the lullaby of the old floorboards even fades.
Back in the kitchen, Calla turns to me with that no-nonsense stare I can never dodge. “Clothes,” she says, palm out. “All of it. I’m not letting you drip dry in blood.”
I grunt but peel off the kutte, shirt, jeans—dropping each piece into the basket she’s already got waiting.
The dried streaks across the fabric look darker under the warm light.
She leads me to the bathroom without a word.
Steam curls from the shower she’s already started, the room filling with the clean bite of her soap.
“Stand still,” she murmurs.
Water hits my skin hot and sharp, washing the dirt and gunpowder away.
Calla steps in behind me, fully focused, a clean cloth in hand.
She works methodically, gentle but firm, wiping every streak of dried blood from my back, my arms, the shallow scrape on my ribs.
Her touch isn’t shy—it’s careful, precise, like she’s scrubbing the night off me piece by piece.
I close my eyes, letting the sound of water and her quiet breathing drown out the chaos still ringing in my head.
“Better,” she says at last, fingertips lingering just long enough to tell me I’m home.
Yeah. Better.
Steam rolls off the walls, the spray pounding steadily against my shoulders.
Calla works the cloth across my chest, rinsing away the last streaks of dried blood.
Her hair sticks to her back in dark ribbons, skin slick and warm against mine.
The closeness isn’t about heat; it’s about getting clean, about proving we both made it home.
I brace a hand on the tile and finally let the night spill out. “Run was supposed to be routine,” I say, voice low over the hiss of the water. “Deep woods meet. Instead—Scorpions. Full ambush. Burned their mark into a fence, like they wanted a damn invitation to war.”
Her hand stills on my ribs, but I keep going.
“Someone tipped them. There was a guy there I didn’t recognize at first—” I hesitate, jaw tight. “Name’s Calder. Big, shaved head, cobra tattoo on his neck. He—”
Calla snaps her head up, eyes sharp, pupils wide. “Stop.”
The single word cuts through the steam.
“You know him?” I ask.
She swallows hard, drops the cloth. “Yeah. From the prison. He’s Scorpions, Rook. Always has been. I see him visiting the prison all the time—runs their contraband routes, brags about it. Everyone knows whose side he’s on.”
My stomach goes cold. “No. He’s been working with us for years. Patch-friendly. Ash trusted him enough to give him runs.”
Her face drains of color, steam curling between us like smoke from a fire. “If he’s wearing your colors on the outside and carrying theirs on the inside…”
I finish it for her, voice flat. “Then he’s been feeding the Scorpions everything. Routes, schedules—tonight’s run.”
The shower hisses, hot and relentless, while the betrayal settles like ice in my chest.
Calla turns the water off, but the roar of it still echoes in my head. I knot a towel around my waist and step into the hall, steam rolling past me like smoke from a fire we can’t quite put out.
From the laundry nook comes the steady clank of the dryer door. Calla’s bent over the basket, loading in my clean clothes with quick, efficient motions. The sight of her, barefoot, hair damp, taking care of things without a word—hits me harder than the ambush.
I thumb my phone awake and hit Ash’s number. He picks up on the first ring. “Talk to me.”
“It was Calder,” I say, voice low. “Confirmed. He’s been wearing friendly colors with us, but running with the Scorpions inside. Calla spotted him at the prison. This wasn’t random.”
A pause, then Ash exhales like a growl. “Knew that rat was too eager. Good work, brother.”
I glance toward Calla; she doesn’t turn, but I know she’s listening. “She’s the one who nailed it,” I add.
“Then tell her I said thank you,” Ash says, tone hard but warm underneath. “Lock it up and keep them safe. If anything feels off, you bring them both to the clubhouse. Door’s open.”
“Copy.”
We hang up. The dryer door shuts with a dull thud. Calla straightens, eyes meeting mine across the narrow hall. I let the phone drop to my side, towel still dripping onto the hardwood.
“Ash says thank you,” I tell her. “And we stay locked down. If anything smells wrong, we head straight to the clubhouse.”
She nods once, calm but fierce, like she’s been expecting this all along.
Calla crosses the small hallway, a folded bundle balanced in her arms. Damp hair clings to her shoulders, smelling faintly of her shampoo and wood smoke.
“Here,” she says, pressing the clothes into my chest.
It’s one of my old black tees—soft and a little faded from a hundred rides—and my boxers from this morning.
“I never got rid of it,” she adds, a wry smile ghosting across her mouth. “Figured you’d rather have these than another towel.”
I catch her wrist before she can pull away; the warmth of her skin grounds me. “Perfect,” I murmur.
The shirt smells faintly of cedar from the dresser.
I tug it over my head; the cotton slides easily across skin that finally feels clean.
She watches just long enough for our eyes to meet, something quiet passing between us—home, history, maybe a promise—before she turns toward the softly thumping dryer.
Outside, the woods are silent, but the weight of the night still hangs thick.
Inside, with her handing me a piece of my past, it almost feels like we’ve already claimed the next fight together.
The house settles into that deep, midnight hush—the kind that only happens in the mountains.
The dryer hum fades to a low purr behind us.
Calla starts to turn toward the living room, maybe to recheck the locks, but I catch her hand. No words. Just fingers sliding through hers. She looks up, eyes soft and questioning, but she doesn’t pull away.
I give a gentle tug and lead her down the short hall, the floor cool under our bare feet. The door to her room creaks a little when I push it open. Moonlight spills across the quilt, silvering the edges.
She doesn’t ask me to stay. I don’t ask if I can. I pull the covers back, guide her in first, and then stretch out beside her. She fits against me like she never left—her head on my chest, the steady rhythm of her breathing syncing with mine.
Outside, the woods are black and endless. Inside, there’s only the sound of her heartbeat and the slow rise and fall of our breaths. I wrap an arm around her waist, holding her closer. No words needed. Just sleep.