Chapter 17 Calla #2
The words hit like a quiet shield. A Royal Bastard. Rook’s world. My world now, whether I meant it or not.
Granite watches me for a moment, gray eyes softening.
“Truth is, I knew you were Rook’s girl the first day you set foot in here,” he says.
“Had a word with Grimm a few weeks back—he confirmed it. Couldn’t miss the way you two used to look at each other.
Hell, I remember you sneakin’ kisses behind your daddy’s church when you were barely teenagers. ”
A surprised laugh slips out before I can stop it. “You were around back then?”
“Always kept an eye on the Berlin crew,” he says, smile deepening. “And when Ash called this morning, filled me in on what’s stirring? I figured I’d plant myself right here. You’re safe, darlin’. No worries while I’m breathing.”
The knot in my chest loosens, just a fraction. For the first time all day, I let out a long breath, the sound lost beneath the steady buzz of the fluorescent lights.
The rest of my shift drags like a storm cloud that refuses to break. I clean cuts, hand out meds, and keep my ears open, but nothing tops what I’ve already heard.
Every so often, Granite passes by the bay on some excuse—moving laundry, checking a cart—always with a nod that says I’m still here. Each time, the knot in my stomach eases just a little more.
By late afternoon, the intercom crackles with the final count. I peel off my gloves and scrub my hands until the scent of antiseptic gives way to the faint bite of soap. My muscles ache, but my mind hums with the intel I’m carrying: Route 3 logging road. Montreal connection. Calder.
When the last gate buzzes open and the outside air hits my face, it feels like stepping out of a cage. Grimm is leaning against my truck, Beau perched on the hood beside him like it’s the best seat in the lot. Beau’s grin lights up the dusk as soon as he spots me.
“Mama!” he shouts, waving his fox. “We made cookies at after-school!”
Grimm gives a two-finger salute. “Kid’s a natural in the kitchen.”
Relief loosens something tight in my chest. “Thank you,” I say, meaning more than just the ride.
“That’s what family does, little Calla Lily,” Grimm replies with a grin, opening the passenger door for Beau.
The drive back to the clubhouse is quiet except for Beau’s chatter about sprinkles and story time. The northern sky bleeds gold and violet as we roll through the mountain roads, the engine’s hum steady beneath us.
But my mind never stops. Route 3. Logging road. Montreal. Calder. Each word burns hotter the closer we get. When we pull into the yard, the clubhouse is alive with the low thunder of bikes and voices. I barely wait for the truck to stop before I’m out, the cool evening air cutting across my skin.
I need to find Rook. Before the sun’s gone, before the words fade, I have to tell him everything I heard.
Beau makes himself at home the second we step through the door, kicking off his shoes and bee-lining for the big table in the main room. A few of the brothers look up from their cards, curious, but he doesn’t hesitate.
“Snack first,” I tell him, sliding a plate of crackers and fruit onto the table.
He grins, settles in, and pulls out his coloring book. “You guys wanna help?” he asks, holding out a fistful of crayons like it’s a challenge.
To my surprise, Ridge sets his cards down and joins him.
One by one, the others follow—big, tattooed men lowering themselves to tiny chairs while Beau issues orders about dinosaurs and rainbows.
Within minutes, the table that usually hosts beer and strategy is covered in crayon shavings and half-finished masterpieces. I can’t help smiling at the sight.
Grimm steps up beside me, a quiet wall at my shoulder.
“Where’s Rook?” I ask.
“In the stockroom,” he says, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Counting parts. Or maybe counting to keep from punching someone.”
I leave Beau happily bossing around half the clubhouse and make my way down the hall, past the hum of low voices and the clatter of a distant toolbox. The heavy door to the stockroom stands half-open.
Rook is inside, sleeves shoved up, counting boxes of parts that don’t need counting. His shoulders are tight, every line of him coiled. I close the door quietly behind me.
He senses me before I speak, head lifting as I step in. “Hey,” he says, voice rough. “Everything good out there?”
“No,” I answer, letting the door swing shut behind me. “I need to tell you what I heard today.”
His posture changes instantly—still, alert. “Go on.”
I take a breath and give it all to him: Lucien Vore walking into the bay with a fresh cut and a smirk, the scarred man who followed, their whispered talk about guns moving north.
“They said tonight,” I finish, keeping my voice low but steady.
“Old logging road off Route 3. Montreal boys meeting them at the ridge. And—” I hesitate, then add, “the name Calder came up. They said the Berlin crew’s already chasing ghosts. ”
Rook’s jaw hardens until I can see the muscle jump. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.” I meet his eyes, refusing to flinch. “I heard it all.”
He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat of him, but his voice stays even. “You did good, Calla.”
“I didn’t have a choice,” I say quietly. “They’re moving tonight.”
For a beat, the only sound is the faint hum of the overhead light, the weight of what I’ve brought back settling heavy between us.
Rook exhales, low and lethal. “Then the club needs to move faster.”
His gaze stays locked on mine, dark and unblinking. For a long moment, neither of us moves. I can feel the hum of his anger in the air, a slow vibration that seems to pull me closer.
He steps in until the heat of his chest presses against me, until the edges of the work table bite into the backs of my thighs. “You walked into that and brought it back to me,” he says, voice rough. “Didn’t flinch. Didn’t run.”
“I couldn’t,” I whisper. “They were talking about Berlin. About you.”
His jaw works once, like he’s chewing down words that might break the room apart. Then, his hand slides to the back of my neck, steady and sure.
“You’re not just my girl anymore,” he says finally, voice a low growl. “You’re my fucking war strategy.”
The words settle between us like a spark catching dry tinder.
His thumb strokes the back of my neck, slow, deliberate. “You hear me?” he murmurs, eyes never leaving mine. “Every move I make tonight starts with what you brought me.”
My breath shudders out. “Rook…”
He leans in until his forehead rests against mine, the weight of him anchoring me. “We do this together. No more you alone. No more me alone.”
The air around us thickens, humming with everything unspoken.
I slide my palms up his chest, feeling the hard drum of his heartbeat under my fingertips. He doesn’t move, just watches me with that dark, unwavering focus.
“Tell me you’re in,” he says, voice a low command.
“I’m in,” I whisper.
The corner of his mouth curves, fierce and proud, and he tilts my chin higher—close enough that I can taste the heat of his next breath. The table presses cold and solid against the backs of my legs as he closes the last inch between us.
His mouth crashes into mine, hard and desperate, his hand at my neck pulling me closer.
I gasp against him, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as he kisses me like he's drowning and I'm his last breath of air.
There's nothing gentle about it—all teeth and tongue and five years of longing packed into a single moment.
Rook lifts me onto the table in one fluid motion, parts and papers scattering across the surface. A blueprint crumples beneath me; metal pieces clatter to the floor. I don't care. All I can focus on is the weight of him between my thighs, the heat of his hands as they slide under my shirt.
"Fuck," he growls against my mouth, his fingers digging into my hips hard enough to bruise. "You drive me crazy, you know that?"
I bite his lower lip in response, drawing a hiss from him that vibrates through my entire body. His hands are everywhere—tangling in my hair, gripping my thighs, pushing under my clothes to find bare skin. I'm just as frantic, yanking at his belt, desperate to feel him.
He breaks the kiss to drag his mouth down my neck. Rook’s hands slide up to my throat, and for a moment our eyes lock. There's a question there—permission he's waiting for. I nod almost imperceptibly, and his fingers tighten around my neck.
The pressure is exquisite—not enough to cut off my air completely, but enough that each breath becomes deliberate, precious. My pulse throbs against his palm as his thumb strokes the hollow of my throat. I arch into his touch, a soft moan escaping me.
"You like that?" His voice is gravel and sin. "Like feeling me control how you breathe?"
I can only nod, my hands gripping his forearms, not to pull away but to anchor myself. The edges of my vision blur slightly, everything narrowing down to the sensation of his fingers against my skin.
"That's right," he growls, leaning in to bite at my ear. "Fucking perfect like this. Taking what I give you."
His other hand works between us, unbuttoning my pants with practiced efficiency. I lift my hips to help him; the movement makes his grip on my throat tighten momentarily. The flash of light behind my eyes makes me gasp.
"Up," he commands, and I lift my arms as he pulls the top over my head in one swift motion. The air hits my skin, raising goosebumps across my shoulders and chest. I sit before him in just my bra and panties, exposed under his hungry gaze.
His eyes travel over me slowly, methodically, like he's memorizing every inch.
The intensity in his stare makes me want to cover myself and spread wider all at once.
I do neither, just wait, breath caught in my throat as his fingers trace the edge of my bra, following the curve where lace meets skin.
"You're fucking beautiful," he says, voice rough. "Always have been."