Chapter 16 Rook
Iwake stiff on the clubhouse couch, the kind of half-sleep that never really lets go. My back protests as I stretch, the stale taste of yesterday still in my mouth.
The room’s quiet, too early for engines or laughter, just the low hum of the refrigerator and the faint buzz of neon from the bar below. My door stays shut down the hall. Good. Calla and Beau need the rest.
I snag a cigarette and head outside, boots whispering over the worn wood stairs. Dawn hangs gray and cold over the lot, mist curling off the trees. The first drag cuts through the fog in my head. That’s when I see it.
A small cardboard mailer sits just inside the front gate, damp from the morning dew. No postage. No markings. Like it walked there on its own.
I flick the ash from my smoke and walk over, every sense sharpening. The metal of the gate is slick under my hand as I unlatch it. The package is light, almost weightless, but something about it feels wrong—too deliberate.
Back inside, I tear the flap with my thumb. A cheap burner phone slides out, screen already glowing. One photo. Beau’s school backpack. Navy canvas, frayed strap, the little fox patch Calla sewed on with his name. Lying in a bed of wet leaves, deep woods I don’t recognize.
My cigarette drops to the floor. For a long beat, I just stare, breath coming slow and heavy, the world narrowing to that single image. Someone touched my boy’s things. Someone wants me to know.
The phone feels like a live wire in my hand, heat crawling up my spine. Whoever left this wanted me to see it first thing. Wanted me to burn. I shove the gate closed hard enough to rattle the chain and stride back inside. Every step echoes off the quiet hallway, each one louder than the last.
Down the corridor, past sleeping rooms and the faint hum of the bar fridge, straight to my door.
I don’t bother knocking. The handle turns under my grip, and I push in, the dark room smelling like cedar and Calla’s shampoo.
She’s curled on the bed with Beau tucked against her side, both of them wrapped in the quilt I’d pulled over them last night.
“Calla.” My voice comes out rough, too loud.
She stirs, blinking in the thin morning light. “Rook? What—”
I’m already at the bedside, the phone held out like evidence. “Wake up.”
Her eyes clear fast when she sees my face. “What happened?”
I tap the screen. The photo flares bright in the dim room. Beau’s backpack, the frayed strap, the fox patch lying in a nest of wet leaves.
“They left this at the gate,” I say, voice low but shaking with rage. “A burner. No note. Just this.”
Calla sits up so quickly the blanket slips from her shoulders, one hand pulling Beau closer even as he sleeps on. Her gaze snaps to mine, wide and sharp.
“Someone touched our kid’s stuff,” I grind out. “And they want us to know.”
Calla’s eyes ignite the second she sees the picture—pure fire, not fear. “Whoever touched his bag,” she says, voice low and lethal, “isn’t walking away.”
I nod once. “I’m telling Ash.”
She gives a sharp jerk of her chin, already climbing out of bed, Beau still asleep against the pillows.
I leave before the anger in her eyes burns a hole through me.
The clubhouse is stirring now—boots on old wood, the smell of coffee and motor oil creeping through the halls.
Ash is in his office when I push the door open without knocking.
He takes one look at my face. “What happened?”
I drop the burner on his desk. The screen wakes, the photo glaring up at us. “Found it at the front gate.”
Ash studies it for a heartbeat, then his voice cuts like a blade. “Lock it down. Nobody in or out. Church in an hour.”
His order rolls through the building like a starting gun. Doors slam, brothers shout confirmations, the whole place shifting into high alert. When I make it back to the kitchen, the scene stops me cold.
Grimm is there with Beau perched easily on his hip, the kid’s fox dangling from one small hand. Beau’s giggling at something Grimm whispered, completely unaware of the storm outside these walls.
At the stove, Calla moves with quick, practiced efficiency—flipping bacon, sliding eggs onto a platter, hair tied back, every motion sharp and sure. Breakfast for a roomful of men who would bleed for her without a second thought.
The smell of frying butter cuts through the tension, but her posture tells me everything.
Shoulders squared, jaw set, eyes hard as tempered steel.
She’s angry. She’s ready. And whoever left that backpack photo has no idea what kind of war they just woke.
I lean against the doorway, watching her move—quick, precise, a storm wrapped in calm.
Wren strolls in from the back hall, still tugging on his kutte. He eyes the spread on the counter and lets out a low whistle. “Damn, Calla. You feeding the whole state or just us sorry bastards?”
She glances over her shoulder, a small, deceptively sweet smile tugging at her mouth. “I bake and cook when I’m mad.”
Wren smirks. “That explains the feast.”
Calla slides a pan off the burner, voice light but sharp enough to cut steel. “If my hands are busy with cooking or kneading dough, then they’re not wrapped around somebody’s throat—or the trigger of my gun.”
The room goes quiet for a beat. Even Grimm, still holding Beau, raises his brows. I can’t help the dark curl of pride that slips through my chest. That’s my girl—soft smile, lethal core.
Wren chuckles, holding up both hands. “Noted, darlin’. I’ll just grab a plate and stay on your good side.”
Calla’s grin doesn’t fade as she turns back to the stove, the scent of bacon and smoke wrapping around her like a warning.
The smell of bacon and strong coffee fills the kitchen until even the tension seems to thin.
Plates scrape, mugs clink. Brothers drift in one by one—Boar, Ridge, Wren—each giving Calla a nod of respect before loading up.
Grimm settles Beau at the table beside him, keeping a steady hand on the kid’s shoulder while he digs into eggs and toast. Beau chatters about the fox and pancakes, oblivious to the way every man in the room keeps an eye on the doors.
I eat standing, back to the wall, watching them all. Calla moves through the crowd with quiet purpose—refilling mugs, sliding another skillet of eggs onto the counter—like feeding us is just another layer of defense.
When the last plate is cleared, Ash’s voice cuts through the low conversation. “Church. Five minutes.”
Chairs scrape back. Kuttes shrugged on. The easy noise fades to a low, focused silence. Calla meets my eyes as I head for the chapel door, Beau’s small hand tucked in hers. There’s a fire there—steady, unshaken—that tells me she’s as ready for this fight as any of us.
We file toward the meeting room, boots thudding against old wood, the weight of what waits inside pressing down with every step.
Ash slams the gavel once, the crack echoing off the paneled walls. “Church is in. Rook—give the table everything, from yesterday and this morning.”
I stand, the burner phone cold in my fist. “Yesterday, I told Ash what Grimm and I suspected about the new prospect—how he’s been running his mouth and how the tire tracks at Calla’s place matched his bike. That hasn’t changed.”
I lay the phone on the scarred wood and wake the screen. The photo glows in the dim light. “But this was waiting at the gate this morning. No postage, no note. Just Beau’s backpack in the woods.”
A low, angry ripple moves around the table. Ridge curses under his breath; Wren’s jaw flexes tight.
Grimm leans forward, voice flat and certain. “That kid was out at Calla’s place during the storm. I saw the mud packed in his tread myself. And now this? That’s not coincidence.”
Boar pounds a fist once on the table. “He’s not even in this room to answer for it.”
Ash’s gaze sweeps the brothers, hard and measured. “Prospects don’t set foot in church. But nobody leaves until we decide how we handle our own.”
The room goes silent except for the low hiss of the overhead lights, every man waiting for the next word, the weight of the morning settling heavy over the table.
Ash stays standing, hands braced on the table, eyes like cold iron.
“Here’s what we’re doing,” he says, voice cutting through the room.
He looks to Ridge first. “Get riders out. Sweep every back road, every trail, every spot a van or bike could hide between here and the school. Nobody rides alone—two-man minimum.”
Ridge nods once, already pulling out his phone.
Ash turns to Wren. “Ping the Northern Ontario and Montreal chapters. Tell ’em we may need extra eyes on the border. Ask for standby help, no details over the line.”
Wren’s already thumbing a message, face tight.
The room vibrates with low curses and the scrape of chairs as brothers move. Engines roar to life outside, the deep rumble of Harleys carrying through the floorboards.
I stay planted, fists clenched, the burner phone still glowing on the scarred wood. Whoever left that picture thinks we’ll just chase shadows. Not a chance.
The gavel hits the table a final time. “Move,” Ash orders, and the room explodes into motion—chairs scraping, boots pounding, engines already rumbling outside.
I don’t wait for the chatter. I’m out the chapel door before the echo fades, the burner phone heavy in my pocket and a single name pounding in my head.
The kitchen smells of sugar and cinnamon when I step in.
Calla and Beau stand at the counter, hands dusted in flour, with a tray of cookies already cooling.
The sight cuts through the haze for half a heartbeat.
Calla looks up, eyes fierce but calm. “Everything set?”
“For now.” I lean in and brush a quick kiss to her temple. Then I crouch to Beau’s level and press another to the top of his head. “You two stay right here, okay? You’re safe in this house.”
Beau grins, oblivious to the storm outside. “We’re making fox cookies!”
“Save me one,” I say, forcing a small smile.
Calla studies my face like she knows what I’m about to do. “Rook…”
“I’ve got things to handle,” I tell her quietly. “Stay here. Promise me.”
She nods once, lips pressed tight. I head for the back hall, the noise of the club fading behind me as the roar in my chest takes over. It doesn’t take long to find him.
The prospect is out by the service lot, pretending to check a bike he’s never ridden. He doesn’t even look up before my shadow covers the pavement. I don’t ask a single question.
My fist connects with his jaw, a crack that echoes off the corrugated walls.
He stumbles, but I’m already on him—left, right, a knee to the ribs, the sharp taste of blood in the air.
He tries to cover up, but I break through, each punch landing with the weight of every threat, every fear.
By the time he collapses to his knees, his face is a swollen mask of red.
I grab his collar, drag him up close enough that he can feel every word against his ear. “I told you,” I growl, breath hot and steady. “You touch my blood, I take yours.”
The prospect sags in my grip, breath hitching, blood slick on his lip. I hold him there another beat, letting the silence drag until his eyes finally meet mine.
“You even think about running to the Scorpions again,” I whisper, “and I won’t stop at a warning.”
He nods, frantic, but I don’t believe a damn word of it. I shove him back against the wall, hard enough to rattle the siding.
“You’re done here,” I say flatly. “Patch or no patch, you’re finished.”
Bootsteps crunch on the gravel behind me. Ridge’s voice cuts through the heavy air. “Enough, Rook.”
I let go, the prospect sliding to the ground, gasping.
Ridge steps closer, eyes flicking from the kid to me. “Ash wants him in the cage till we decide what to do.”
I wipe the blood from my knuckles on my jeans, never taking my eyes off the prospect. “Then drag him there. And keep him where I can find him.”
Ridge jerks his chin at the two brothers who appear from the shadows. They haul the prospect up by his arms, none too gently. He winces but doesn’t fight, eyes darting anywhere but at me. I light a cigarette with hands that still tremble, watching until they disappear toward the clubhouse.
The smoke burns hot in my lungs, but it doesn’t put out the fire in my chest. Whoever sent that picture isn’t finished. And neither am I. The clubhouse hums with low voices and the faint thrum of bikes outside, but the storm in my chest starts to ease the second I step through the door.
Grimm’s posted at the bar, a stack of coloring pages spread out in front of him. Beau sits beside him, tongue caught between his teeth as he shades in a crooked fox. Grimm winks when he catches my eye, and Beau flashes me a quick grin before diving back into the crayons.
I leave them to it and head down the hall. My room smells like fresh sheets and cedar. Calla is there, smoothing the quilt, her back to me. The simple sight of her—calm, steady—hits harder than any punch I threw outside.
She turns when she hears the door. “Hey.”
Before she can say more, I cross the room and wrap my arms around her from behind, pulling her in until her spine rests against my chest.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur into her hair. “For last night. For all of it.”
She turns just enough to look at me, eyes soft but clear. “Me too.”
For a moment, we just breathe together, the quiet louder than anything else. Then she lets out a small laugh, warm and a little shaky. I feel it against my ribs.
“No more rehashing,” she says. “No more past.”
“Only forward,” I answer.
“Together,” she adds, voice sure.
I tighten my hold, the weight of it settling right where it belongs. “A family,” I say, and this time it feels like a promise we both believe.
Calla rests the back of her head against my chest, and for a few steady heartbeats, everything inside me finally goes quiet. No burner phone. No threats. Just the three of us waiting for whatever comes next.
From the bar down the hall, Beau’s laugh carries—bright and certain, like he doesn’t know the world just shifted around him. Grimm answers with a low chuckle, and the sound settles something deep in my bones.
Calla tilts her face up. “Whatever’s out there, we handle it together.”
“Damn right,” I say, brushing a thumb along her jaw.
Outside, a bike engine fires, the distant roar of brothers gearing up for the sweep. The club is moving, the hunt already underway.
I press a final kiss to her temple. “We’ve got this.”
For the first time all day, the weight on my chest eases. The fight isn’t finished—not by a long shot—but we’re not running anymore. We’re standing. Together.
Let them come.