Chapter 15 Calla
The clubhouse hums with low voices and the faint smell of motor oil as we carry our bags down the hall. Beau clutches Fox tight, practically skipping beside Rook.
Grimm is already waiting inside, hauling a small frame and a pile of bedding. “Figured the little man would want his own spot,” he says, flashing Beau a grin.
“Yeah!” Beau bounces on his toes. “Fox too!”
Rook crouches to help, holding the frame steady while Grimm snaps it into place and smooths the blanket. Beau climbs up the second the pillow hits, proud and grinning.
“Looks perfect,” I say, dropping Beau’s backpack near the foot of the bed.
Rook straightens, his eyes soft but serious as they meet mine. “You two are safe here. Nothing gets past these walls.”
Grimm gives a single nod of agreement. “Whole chapter’s on watch tonight.”
Beau stretches out beside Fox, already chatting about bedtime stories and pancakes for breakfast. I brush a hand over his hair, the simple rhythm of it easing some of the tension in my chest. For the first time all day, I let myself breathe. Tonight, we’re surrounded. Tonight, we’re not alone.
A solid knock hits the door.
Rook’s head turns first. “Yeah?”
Ash’s voice comes through, low and even. “Need a word with you and Calla.”
Before I can move, Grimm leans against the wall with an easy grin. “Go on. I’ll hang with the kid—we’re buddies.”
Beau pops up on his elbows, eyes bright. “We’re best friends!”
Grimm chuckles and gives him a fist bump. “That’s right. Best friends.”
The simple exchange loosens something tight in my chest. Rook squeezes my hand once, then pulls the door open. Together we step into the hall, leaving Beau and his “best friend” behind as the muffled thrum of the clubhouse wraps around us.
Ash is already waiting in the hall, a quiet wall of leather and authority. He jerks his chin upward. “My office.”
Rook keeps my hand in his as we follow him through the clubhouse. The stairwell smells of old wood and motor oil, every step creaking under our boots. Voices and the clatter of tools fade with each flight until the noise of the main floor is a distant hum.
By the time we reach the third floor, the air feels different—cooler, sharper.
Ash pushes open a heavy door and gestures us inside.
His office stretches across the top of the building, with windows running the length of the far wall.
From here, the whole clubhouse sprawls beneath us: bikes lined like soldiers in the lot, brothers moving in and out of the common room, the distant shimmer of the tree line beyond the compound fence.
Ash steps behind a scarred desk, the view of everything below framed behind him like a living map of the club’s world. “Shut the door,” he says, voice low but carrying.
Rook does, the soft click sounding louder than it should in the quiet, and we move closer, the weight of whatever comes next settling over the room like a storm about to break.
Ash leans against the edge of his desk, arms crossed, eyes sharp as a hawk’s. “I need to hear everything you know about Calder.”
My stomach tightens. I take the chair he nods toward, the worn leather cool under my palms. Rook stays standing behind me, a steady presence at my back.
“I know him from the prison,” I begin, forcing my voice steady. “Big guy, shaved head, cobra ink on his neck. He runs with the Scorpions inside—moves contraband, trades favors, brags about connections. Visits a different member every week. Everyone in the yard knows he’s theirs.”
Ash doesn’t blink. “How often you see him?”
“Enough to know he’s dangerous. He’s slick, acts friendly with staff, but he’s always watching. He gets messages in and out—never caught, but we all know.”
I glance back at Rook, then to Ash again. “I never heard a word about him having ties to the Bastards. Not once. To me, he’s Scorpions through and through.”
Ash’s jaw flexes, the only sign he’s heard something he doesn’t like. “But Rook says he’s been hanging around our runs.”
“Yes,” I say quietly. “If he’s wearing your colors out here and theirs inside… he’s been playing you.”
Ash’s gaze drifts to the window overlooking the compound, mind already working angles. “Anything else we should know?”
I shake my head. “Just that he’s careful. And he enjoys being the smartest man in the room.”
The office goes silent, the low thrum of the clubhouse below a faint reminder of how much this one name can change. Ash finally nods once, slow and deliberate.
When I finish, Ash straightens, the steel in his voice sharper. “Good. Now…” His gaze swings to Rook. “What’s your fucking problem with the new prospect?”
The room goes still.
Rook’s stance widens, arms crossing over his chest. “He’s had Calla’s name in his mouth three times. Little comments. Questions he’s got no reason to ask. Today he thought he’d be smart about it in front of the brothers.”
I blink, heartbeat quickening. “Wait—” I turn toward Rook. “The same prospect who kept staring at me when I patched up Boar last week?”
Rook’s head snaps toward me, the leather of his kutte creaking. “He what?”
“I… I thought I imagined it,” I admit, heat rising in my cheeks. “He didn’t say anything, just kept watching while I worked.”
I tighten my grip on Rook’s fist, the skin beneath my fingers rough and split. “Hey,” I whisper, low but firm. “Look at me. I’m fine.”
His breathing slows a fraction, but the heat in his eyes doesn’t fade.
Ash studies us, arms still folded. “So nothing was actually solved in the pit?”
My stomach knots. “The… pit?” The word tastes wrong the second it leaves my mouth.
Ash tilts his head, watching my reaction. “Old boiler room under the clubhouse. Where brothers settle things when words don’t cut it.”
I stare at Rook, the cuts on his knuckles catching the light—suddenly obvious, suddenly explained. “That’s why your hands look like that,” I say quietly. “You fought him.”
Rook doesn’t deny it. “He ran his mouth. I shut it.”
A sharp breath escapes me, half disbelief, half anger. “That’s your solution? A secret fight club under the floor?”
His jaw tightens. “It’s how we handle disrespect.”
I shake my head, unimpressed, the weight of it sitting cold in my chest. “And you think that fixes anything?”
Ash lets the silence stretch before speaking, voice even but edged. “Apparently not. If the kid’s still sniffing around after a pit round, we’ve got a bigger problem.”
I keep my eyes on Rook, the sting of worry sharper than the smell of oil and smoke in the room. “Clearly.”
Rook’s jaw works like he’s chewing glass. Finally, he breaks the silence. “Remember that storm a while back? The night Beau wandered out?”
The memory slams into me—wind screaming, power dead, mud sucking at my boots as I followed Beau’s prints into the trees. The tire marks. The ones I thought were just a hunter or some lost hiker.
I narrow my eyes. “What about it?”
“That wasn’t some random set of tracks,” Rook says, voice low and dangerous. “Grimm found the same pattern on the prospect’s bike. Mud and leaves packed in exactly like the ones near your trail. He’s been to your cabin, Calla. That night.”
My stomach drops, cold and sharp. “You’re telling me—” I stand so fast the chair legs screech. “He was there? While Beau was out there alone?”
Rook’s nostrils flare. “Yeah.”
“Jesus Christ.” My pulse hammers, anger and terror tangling until I can barely breathe. “And you’re only telling me now?”
“I wanted proof,” he says, but the words don’t calm the fire in my chest.
Ash leans forward, eyes narrowing. “You sure about this, Rook?”
“Positive,” Rook snaps. “Same tread, same mud. Grimm said it before I even asked.”
My hands shake as I point at him. “My son was in those woods, and some creep from the club was watching us? You should’ve told me the second you knew.”
Rook’s voice is rough enough to scrape bone. “I’m telling you now because I’m done playing nice. He comes near you or Beau again, I’ll put him in the ground.”
Ash exhales slowly, the tension in the room thick enough to choke on. “Then we handle it—fast and clean.”
But I barely hear him. All I can see are those muddy tire tracks disappearing into the storm-dark woods, and the prospect’s eyes the day I patched up Boar. Watching. Waiting. The words barely leave Rook’s mouth before something in me snaps.
I shove back from the desk so hard the chair screeches across the floor. “Where is he?”
“Calla—” Rook starts, but I’m already at the door.
I don’t wait for permission. I throw it open and storm down the hallway, boots pounding the stairs.
The low thrum of voices from the clubhouse below swells as I hit the second floor.
Faces turn, surprised, but I don’t care.
I see him near the bar—helmet in hand, laughing with another brother—like he hasn’t been stalking my home.
“Hey!” My voice cracks across the room like a whip. “You think you can come near my kid and hide behind this patch?”
The prospect stiffens, eyes going wide. The room falls silent.
Behind me, Ash’s voice bellows from above, “Rook! Handle your woman!”
Heavy footsteps thunder down the stairs. Rook’s right behind me, all heat and motion. Before I can take another step, his arm is around my waist.
“Calla, stop,” he growls in my ear.
“No!” I twist, fury and fear tangling in my chest. “He was at my house, Rook! Beau was out there—”
Rook doesn’t argue. He just scoops me off the ground like I weigh nothing and turns away from the crowd, carrying me through the side corridor while voices buzz behind us.
I pound a fist against his chest, but he doesn’t slow. “Put me down!”
“Not here,” he mutters, jaw tight.
He shoulders through a heavy door at the end of the hall, one of the quiet storage rooms used for extra gear and parts. The scent of motor oil and cold concrete closes around us as he kicks the door shut with his boot.
Only then does he set me on my feet, his hands still firm on my arms. “Now,” he says, eyes burning into mine, “we talk. Just us.”