Page 11 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)

“It’s none of your fucking business.” Malerick’s jaw clenches. His teeth grind. His whole face goes murder-mode, and honestly? It’s kind of hot. I’m not proud of that. I should probably unpack that in therapy.

But before I can spiral too far into what that says about me, I jump in. Because if we’re going to talk about the elephant in the room, we might as well invite the whole fucking zoo.

“He’s not interested,” I say. Too fast. Too loud. Like I need to be the one who says it before someone else does, and it stings worse.

Cassian snorts, that smug glint flashing in his eyes. “Sweetheart, he’s very interested.” He grins, and I hate how good he is at reading people. “Which is a little sad,” he adds, tapping his chin, “because that makes you both officially off-limits.”

He pauses.

Then—of course—he adds, “Unless . . .”

“Unless?” The word slips out of me before I can catch it. Curious. A little too curious. My brain throws up a red flag, but my hormones tell it to shut up. Let the man speak, he might have ideas, very interesting ideas that will bring you pleasure—lots of it.

“She’s not a toy,” Malerick growls, stepping in like he’s ready to throw Cassian through a wall if he doesn’t shut up. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

“Definitely not a toy,” Cassian says, and this time his voice is calmer, as if he had heard the warning but chose not to back down.

“She’s smart. Gorgeous. And look at that mouth.

” His gaze dips to my lips and lingers—long enough to make me forget what breathing feels like. “I bet it can do a lot of things.”

“Mouth still works fine for telling you to fuck off,” I mutter, heat crawling up my neck even as I try to sound unaffected.

“Not her,” Malerick warns again, voice rough now. Possessive.

Cassian ignores him completely. Of course he does.

“I bet she’d fit perfectly between the two of us.” His eyes find mine, full of that shameless, flirty heat that says ‘I could wreck you right now, and you’d say thank you. Maybe even ask for a second round.’

And the worst part?

He’s not wrong.

It’s been too long since I’ve had a human-produced orgasm. And Cassian looks like a man built to ruin women—in all the right ways. The sort who doesn’t just mess up your sheets but leaves your standards permanently rearranged.

But then there’s Malerick.

And the air between us—me and him—is thick with everything we haven’t said. Charged. Tense. Buzzing under my skin like the prelude to something we might not come back from.

Things we’re still pretending don’t exist.

Okay—he’s pretending.

I’m just getting sick and tired of the rejections that feel more like self-preservation than disinterest.

Though, now that Cassian is here . . . what if . . .

No. Stop, Delilah Cecilia Mora. Do not go there. That road leads straight to heartbreak and bad decisions with great abs.

I swallow the retort clawing up my throat, press my tongue to the roof of my mouth like it’ll keep everything else in check, and shift my weight like that’ll shake the tension from my body. It doesn’t.

This isn’t just banter.

This is the edge of something dangerous.

And I have a terrible track record with danger.

But me . . . between them?

That would be molten. Dirty. Addictive.

And just for a second, I imagine it—heat, hands, mouths, surrender. Pleasure wrapped in bodies that know precisely how to make a woman forget her own name.

And I hate how badly I want it.

“She wants it,” Cassian says, and it’s not a question. It’s a knowing, arrogant statement that slices straight through me like he’s been living inside my head this entire time.

He steps in—slow, like a sin. Like he’s giving me time to stop him, and he knows I won’t. Not yet.

Now he’s in my space.

Too close.

Close enough that the heat of his body licks against mine, teasing through the cotton of my shirt like a promise.

I can smell him—bourbon, cedar, and something warm that settles low in my belly.

My pulse stutters. My breath hitches. And there’s this coil of want pulling tight between my legs like my body just remembered what it means to be touched. To be devoured.

His eyes drop to my mouth. “Say the word, beautiful,” he murmurs, voice low enough to be illegal, “and I’ll make you forget every man who didn’t know how to touch you.”

Oh, fuck.

I am dangerously close to saying that word.

Begging for it, if I’m honest.

Cassian tilts his head, his lips hovering just a whisper from mine, and my body sways—yes, sways—like gravity is working against me.

And then . . . fucking Malerick moves in this quick, silent, and possessive way. His hand wraps around my arm and pulls me back a step—not rough, but firm. Controlled. Like a storm held behind glass.

“She’s not yours to tease,” Mal says, his voice low, full of gravel and something darker. He shifts between us, putting his body in the space Cassian just invaded like he’s reclaiming territory he never admitted was his.

And just like that, the spell snaps.

I blink.

The air rushes back in. My skin still burns. My heart’s doing acrobatics in my chest.

I hate him.

I hate both of them.

I hate how much I don’t want to walk away.

However, I do have something I’d like to say before I turn around and walk away.