Chapter 17 Calla
The clubhouse wakes like a machine coming online—boots on wood, engines rumbling in the yard, voices low and sharp. Rook shadows me the entire morning, eyes flicking to every doorway as if danger might step through it. I pull on my scrubs anyway.
“You’re not going,” he says from the doorway, arms folded, jaw tight.
“I have to.” I slide my badge into my pocket and meet his stare. “My shift starts in an hour. And Beau has school.”
Rook’s frown deepens, the muscle in his jaw working. “After what showed up at the gate yesterday? No.”
“I’m not hiding,” I say, voice steady. “The prison needs me. And Beau deserves a normal day, not another morning locked in a clubhouse.”
He steps closer, hands on my shoulders, heat radiating through my shirt. “Calli…”
“I was born in a storm,” I cut in, softer but firm. “I can handle the fire. You know that.”
For a long moment, he just breathes, the fight in his eyes battling the trust we’ve built. Then he exhales, rough and low. “I don’t like it. But I get it.”
“We stick to the plan,” I say. “You follow us to school, then to work. Extra eyes on both.”
His grip tightens once before he lets go. “Deal. But you call me for anything. Even a shadow that feels wrong.”
I nod, heart hammering, but resolve unshaken. “I promise.”
Behind him, Beau bounces in the hallway, backpack slung over one shoulder, blissfully unaware of the quiet war swirling around us. And for a moment, that’s exactly how I want it. We step into the hallway, Beau bouncing ahead with his new fox keychain jingling against the zipper of his backpack.
Grimm is leaning against the far wall like he’s been waiting the whole time, broad grin already in place. “Morning, buddy,” he says to Beau. Then to me, “Figured I’d volunteer as kindergarten helper today.”
I stop short, half-laughing. “What?”
Grimm pushes off the wall, shrugging like it’s nothing. “Turns out I know Ms. Harmon pretty well. Might owe me a favor or two.” The grin widens, pure trouble. “Thought I’d cash one in—keep an extra set of eyes on your boy.”
Beau beams. “You’re coming to school with me?”
“Looks that way, little man,” Grimm says, offering a fist bump that Beau happily returns.
I shake my head, still laughing, but the tension in my chest loosens a notch. “You never stop surprising me, Grimm.”
“That’s the goal,” he says with a wink. “Let’s get moving before the bell rings. Wouldn’t want to be late for my big debut as teacher’s aide.”
Rook gives Grimm a firm clap on the shoulder. “Appreciate you, brother.”
Grimm just grins wider. “Kid’s my buddy. Wouldn’t miss it.”
We push through the clubhouse doors and step into a morning that smells of exhaust and damp pine.
The yard is alive with movement—more bikes than usual, chrome catching the early light.
Men I don’t recognize stand beside their machines, the backs of their kuttes marked with Bastards patches.
Northern Ontario and Montreal—silent proof that Ash’s calls went out and were answered.
A handful of riders nod to Rook as we pass. Ridge peels away from a small group to meet us halfway. “Local boys are posted near the school,” he says, voice low. “Couple more will stay on the property here.”
I glance around. The quiet efficiency is both unsettling and oddly comforting.
Ridge tips his chin toward the line of parked bikes. “Ash reached out to the inside, too. Some of our brothers in the prison will keep an eye on you during shift change. No one gets close without someone noticing.”
The weight of it settles over me—layers of protection I didn’t ask for but can’t quite resent.
Rook’s hand finds the small of my back, steady and warm. “Good,” he says simply, a quiet promise beneath the word.
Beau skips ahead toward the truck, Fox bouncing in his arms, oblivious to the quiet army gathering around him. I take a slow breath, the rumble of engines and the silent presence of so many Bastards a strange kind of shield. Today, we move forward—but we won’t be moving alone.
The ride to town feels different today—heavier somehow. Grimm follows close behind on his bike, a silent shadow in my side mirror while Rook drives my truck. Beau chatters from the back seat about show-and-tell and how “Uncle Grimm” is going to be the coolest helper ever.
When we pull up to the elementary school, a pair of patched riders are already parked near the curb, engines idling low. Their presence is quiet but unmistakable.
Beau hops out with his backpack and fox, grinning at the sight of Grimm swinging off his bike. “You ready, buddy?” Grimm asks.
“Yeah!” Beau bounces on his toes. “You really get to stay all day?”
Grimm gives him a wink. “Whole day. Your teacher and I already have a plan.”
I crouch to Beau’s level, brushing a crumb of flour from his hair. “Listen to your teacher. Be good for Grimm, okay?”
“I will, Mama.” He hugs me hard, then Rook, before slipping his hand into Grimm’s.
Rook crouches too, voice low. “You call me if anything feels off, got it?”
Beau nods solemnly and heads inside with Grimm, their figures disappearing into the bright hallway.
Back in the truck, the silence feels bigger.
Rook keeps his hand on my knee as we drive across town, the steady weight a wordless promise.
The prison looms ahead, brick and razor wire cutting against the pale sky.
My badge hangs heavy around my neck, but my resolve stays solid.
Rook pulls to the curb outside the staff entrance and kills the engine. “Text me every break,” he says quietly.
“I will.” I lean over and press a quick kiss to his jaw. “Grimm will bring Beau home after school?”
“Straight back to the clubhouse,” Rook confirms. “I’ll be there when you’re done.”
I nod, push the door open, and step into the cool morning air. The gates buzz and slide open, the familiar clang swallowing me as I head inside, the weight of the club’s protection at my back and the storm of the day waiting ahead.
The medical bay smells like bleach and metal, the kind of cold that clings to your skin. I start my shift the same as always—supplies restocked, counters wiped down—trying to ignore the knot in my stomach.
The door buzzes and swings open. Lucien Vore steps inside, tall and coiled, a fresh gash slashing across his cheekbone. Dried blood trails down to his jaw like war paint. Everyone knows his name—Scorpion muscle with a rap sheet that reads like a cartel manual.
“Sit,” I tell him, voice flat. “Pressure on the cut.”
He smirks but does as he’s told, lowering himself onto the metal chair. The guard posted by the door leans against the frame, eyes never leaving us.
I snap on gloves and tilt Lucien’s head toward the light. “What happened?”
“Occupational hazard,” he says, grin curling as the antiseptic hits. “Don’t worry about it, nurse.”
Before I can respond, the door buzzes again. Another inmate slips in—a thick-shouldered man with a jagged scar across his scalp. He doesn’t bother with the pretense of needing treatment. He just drifts to the far corner, posture casual but eyes sharp.
Lucien leans closer to the scarred man, his voice a low rasp I can just barely catch over the buzz of the fluorescent lights.
“…shipment moves tonight… two miles past the border cut, old logging road off Route 3…”
The other man nods, eyes flicking toward the door. “Montreal boys’ll meet ’em at the ridge. Said the Bastard’s won’t see it coming.”
My pulse spikes. Route 3. The cut road. That’s practically the Bastards’ backyard.
Lucien wipes at the blood on his cheek, unfazed. “Tell Calder the distraction worked. Berlin’s chasing ghosts.”
Calder. The name hits like a gunshot—Rook mentioned it after the run that went sideways. A traitor in the wind.
I keep my hands steady, pretending to focus on the gauze, but my mind is already racing. Route 3 logging road. Montreal tie-in. Calder. Face neutral, but every sense screams that I’m standing in the middle of a storm about to break wide open.
Lucien swivels on the stool, a slow grin spreading across his face—slick and wrong.
“Pretty nurse like you shouldn’t be stuck in a place like this,” he says, voice oily. “Bet you taste sweeter than these walls.”
My stomach tightens, but I keep my hands steady, gauze pressed to his cheek. “Sit back,” I warn, flat and cold.
He starts to rise anyway, taking a step toward me.
The door buzzes open before I have to move.
Three men stride in—a guard first, hand on his baton, and behind him the older inmate from my first week here.
Broad, gray in the beard, eyes like stone.
Two others flank him, silent and watchful. Lucien freezes mid-step.
The older man studies the room and then says, voice deep enough to vibrate the walls. “Spa day’s over, Vore. Time to crawl back into your hole.”
Lucien’s smirk falters. The second man with him mutters something under his breath, and just like that, the tension shifts.
“Enjoy your stitches,” the old man adds, still smiling, “while you’ve got teeth to chew with.”
Lucien’s jaw tightens. Without another word, he and his buddy walk back toward the door. The guard doesn’t move to stop them; he just watches as they slip into the hall, and the door buzzes shut behind them.
The old man turns to me then, lowering himself onto the chair Lucien just vacated. “Morning, nurse,” he says evenly, like we’re starting an ordinary appointment. “He give you trouble?”
I shake my head, forcing my pulse to slow. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
His grin is small but knowing as he rolls up his sleeve, offering the arm that needs stitching.
He settles onto the chair with the easy weight of someone who’s seen every corner of this place. Up close, I catch the faint outline of a Royal Bastards patch tattooed just above his elbow—faded but unmistakable.
“Name’s Cole,” he says, then adds with a faint grin, “Most folks call me Granite. Berlin chapter. Been around a long time.”