Page 12 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)

Chapter Nine

Cassian

You learn a lot watching someone from afar.

You learn even more when pastries are involved—and her mother’s serving them with a bottomless pot of coffee and opinions.

Rosalinda Mora is a delightfully dangerous woman.

She’s the first person I’d smuggle out of town if I ever confirmed the Syndicate had their hooks in Birchwood Springs.

Not because she’s in danger, but because she’d spill every town secret before you even asked for one.

The woman tells you everything. And I mean everything.

I now know that Delilah lost her first tooth at the age of five. She took ballet because her mom made her, hated every second, and quit before she turned eight. Joined the fencing team at thirteen—“because she saw a movie about a woman who stabbed a man for cheating,” Rosalinda said proudly.

She studied in a famous culinary school in France—Rosalinda can’t remember the name. Lilah, as her mom sweetly calls her, worked under pastry legends. Apparently, she had a few flings with some international hotties and, in her mother’s words, “refused to trap one with marriage.”

Yeah, Rosalinda’s on a mission to marry off her daughter to someone who doesn’t necessarily know how to knead dough but appreciates her, warts and all.

Even with everything I’ve learned—through recon, through Rosalinda, through my own foolish interest in a woman I should be avoiding—Delilah still managed to surprise the shit out of me this morning.

The way she called us on our lies. Laid it all out without flinching. Tore through our excuses and handed us our asses like she’d been waiting for the chance.

It was poetic, honestly.

And if I hadn’t been half-asleep, a little drunk, and inconveniently horny, I probably would’ve handled the whole ‘you’re both undercover agents’ confrontation with a shred of dignity.

But it’s not just what she said.

It’s how she said it.

The way her mouth curves when she’s about to drop something explosive.

The tiny pause she takes to make sure we’re really listening.

The gleam in her eyes that dares us to look away.

Now I’m just hoping she tells Malerick to fuck off and drag me upstairs to my apartment so I can show her how much I appreciate her.

“Listen,” Delilah says now, voice so calm it’s practically weaponized. “I wouldn’t mind fucking the two of you.”

My brain short-circuits because those aren’t the words I was expecting. However, I would be happy to include Malerick in this round. I’ll be honest, I miss his cock and it would be sweet to share him with her.

Before I can talk, though, she adds, “Together or separate.” The way she says it, though, is like she’s discussing grocery lists, not fantasies that could break my self-control into tiny, begging pieces.

She pauses.

No, she does it for us. To let it land. To make sure we feel every syllable settle into our bones.

And then, just when I think I couldn’t want her more, she delivers the final blow.

“But I’d only do it without your bullshit. You tell me who you are to each other—because I know there’s something. And what my role is in this game you’re playing.”

Her gaze flicks between us, sharp as glass, bright with heat. Unapologetic.

“I want sex—with orgasms,” she says like it’s a perfectly reasonable request. “And zero bullshit.”

And just like that, I forget how to breathe.

Delilah Cecilia Mora is a walking temptation. A wildfire in human skin. And right now? I want every inch of her. Every gasp, every kiss, every dangerous promise she doesn’t even know she’s making.

She could ruin me—and I’d welcome the fall.

But there’s something electric about the two of them—Mal and Lilah. On their own, they’re volatile. Fire and flint. But together? They’re a fucking storm. Wild. Untamed. Beautiful.

And I want to lose myself in it. Not because it’s part of the job. Not because it’s smart.

But because—for the first time in longer than I care to admit—I want to stay. To surrender. To touch something tangible that might stick for longer than a season.

And maybe . . . just maybe . . . I want them to be the ones I stay with.

She leaves the building without so much as a glance over her shoulder.

My pulse hasn’t caught up with her absence.

“What the fuck just happened?” I mumble, raking a hand over my jaw, trying to find my balls somewhere beneath the rubble of her voice, that stare, the scent she left behind—amber and sin, defiance and a challenge I want to meet with my mouth.

“She busted our balls,” Malerick mutters, not nearly pissed enough.

“I like her even more,” I breathe, more to myself than to him.

“Stay the fuck away from her.” His warning lands like a punch in the gut—late, but it still hurts.

I scoff because he should know better. “That’s up to her, Mal. She seems to like the idea of us and looks like a woman who doesn’t like when other people try to decide for her.”

“The last time someone liked the idea of us . . .” He levels a glare at me that should kill. “You fucking left.”

I meet his stare. I don’t flinch. “So you could give her what she wanted,” I say. “I wanted you to be happy.”

His mouth tics.

“What happened?” I push.

He runs a hand through his hair like the answer’s tangled in there, waiting to be pulled out strand by strand. “I realized things with her weren’t . . .”

He exhales, the words stuck somewhere deep, where regret knots itself too tight to name.

“You were missing.” His voice drops lower than I’ve ever heard it.

“Maybe it’s because you fucking left without a goodbye, no closure.

I don’t fucking know. It broke me. You were my partner not only in bed but at the job.

We worked side by side for years. Bureau gave us a badge and a cover story, but we made it real—too real.

You watched my six, and I memorized your tells.

The field blurred everything. Then it all imploded. Yet, they sent you here.”

He takes a break and asks, “Why the fuck are you here?”

I shrug, like I haven’t played that moment in my head on a loop for years. We could talk about the past, but I focus on the part where he can’t believe I’m here.

“These are the assignments I get. Blend in for a couple of years. Infiltrate. Lie. Breathe someone else’s life until I forget how to be mine. The usual drill.”

“So you do work for Crait?” He’s still trying to piece together the person I became without him.

“I . . . yes. I started by consulting for them while still being part of The Organization—the first company that hired me. But at Crait’s . . . they needed people, and they offered a lot more money and benefits.” I lean back against the wall, watching him carefully. “When did you jump ship?”

“CQS has been trying to recruit me since they started.” His eyes drop to the floor like the truth’s easier to say if it’s not looking back at him.

“I didn’t want to leave. But a couple of years ago, when they got information that a syndicate wanted to move out here, they offered me a job and of course part of it was to become the sheriff in my hometown. ”

“You hate this place.”

He nods. “Yeah, but Mom was sick, and I hoped I could be here to help.”

“How’s your mom?”

“She died before I moved back.” He shrugs like it’s not important, and I bet he hasn’t grieved the loss. “Still, it made sense to do it, accept the job and the assignment. I was done with the Bureau.”

I glance at the door she walked through, suppressing a laugh. “Seems like you’re not fooling them.”

“Apparently not.” His lips twitch, dry amusement underlined with worry.

“What worries you?” I ask.

“My brothers.” The words slip out like he wasn’t ready to say them. “Hopper’s back with his kid and engaged. Ledger’s married. And now Atlas moved in and opened a fucking tattoo parlor.”

There’s a beat between us, loaded with . . . well, who the fuck knows exactly? Our past, his story in this town, and how much things might be hurting.

I study him, looking for cracks. “And we don’t want them here because . . . you hate them?”

He shakes his head. “I’m worried the Syndicate’s got their sights set on them.”

Mall tells me about the fires, explosion, accidents, and close calls—none of them feel random.

If I were him, I’d be paranoid too. The kidnapping and bodies on his sister-in-law’s’ land are what brought me here.

They needed someone to help the agent in charge.

I wouldn’t be surprised if they send more soon. I wonder if the more is probably Atlas.

“Maybe Atlas knows how to defend himself?” I offer, trying to figure out how much he knows about his brother.

“He might.” Malerick’s jaw twitches. “As I mentioned, he helped rescue our sister-in-law. He handled weapons and fights too easily. The shop . . . there are too many cameras for a parlor. Same contractor fixed his building and this one. I don’t know what to think.”

Which means he doesn’t know shit. I tuck that away. I’ve got enough fires to dance through without disclosing that I’ve worked with Atlas. Actually, I helped trained him when he began his career in the Organization.

“So . . .” I draw the word out like a match. “What are we doing with Lilah?”

He frowns. “Lilah? Only Rosalinda calls her that.”

“I’ve decided that I do too.”

He groans, but there’s heat behind it. “Fuck if I know. I don’t want her caught in the crosshairs.” The way he says it—gritted, guttural—I believe him. There’s something in his voice that sounds too much like longing.

“Nothing will happen to her,” I assure him.

“She’s not a toy,” he adds, turning to me with eyes that used to undress me, then look away like I wasn’t enough to keep. “You can’t say ‘let’s fuck’ and then leave when you’re bored. Not with her.”

Okay, so we’re back to us and what happened so many years ago.

“Rachel wanted commitment. I was in my twenties,” I remind him.

“Plus, she only wanted one person to commit to her. No more . . . what exactly did she say?” I tap my chin a couple of times.

“Oh right, ‘gay fuckery.’ That . . . those words were what made me say ‘fuck you’ and walk away. She didn’t see our relationship for what it was—or respected us for who we were. ”

I pause. Let it hang, then add. “She didn’t see what we had. Thought it was just sex play.”

“But, what about me, Cassian?”

His question stabs me in places I pretend I’ve numbed.

“You said you loved her,” I answer instead. What I don’t say: You never said that to me.

He stares off into a space filled with regrets. “I . . . I did, in a way. I thought I loved you both.” His voice dips. “It was so long ago.”

His next words are a whisper, almost like a confession he hasn’t admitted to himself.

“Delilah insists she only wants sex.”

There he is, my guy who’s starving for love and, in some way, believes he doesn’t need it and will settle for crumbs

That’s why he’s pulling back not only from me, but from Delilah. He’s hoping she’ll see him as more than just a friend with benefits. He hops she’ll crack the mask he wears for everyone. The man he hides because it’s fucking scary letting anyone inside.

He needs love and a family. People who won’t play him against one another, who will hold him when things get to be too much. He needs her . . . probably. I mean she sounds like nice when you talk to her mother. I’ll just have to do my own research and make sure she’s what he needs.

Maybe while I’m here, I’ll help him get the girl.

Help her see him beneath the scowl and the silence, the gruffness he uses like armor.

And when the mission’s over, I’ll walk. Or maybe stay. Let them invite me in when the bed’s warm and the rules blur.

Wouldn’t that be something?

I just need to know how to play my hand, making sure no one gets hurt.