Page 17 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)

Chapter Fourteen

Cassian

“What do you mean I’m babysitting Atlas?” I growl, low and annoyed, as Finnegan Gil and Derek Farrow—owners of Crait Quantum Shield, senders of pain—update me like I didn’t have other things I planned to do with my life besides adult daycare and ghost-chasing.

“You’re his backup,” Finnegan corrects, voice cool as ever, like assigning me to clean up their disaster file is no big deal. “We’re sending you all the information about Henrietta. The woman who’s working with him at the parlor and passing as his wife.”

“Okay, I can deal with that.” A fake marriage? At least it’s not another body to bury. Yet.

“The Syndicate might be involved,” Finnegan continues like he’s ordering a side of fries with his meal. “We could take care of a few people while this is happening.”

“Have you made contact with the other asset?” Derek asks.

I don’t even try to hide the scowl pulling at my mouth.

I should’ve asked for a phone call and not a video call.

“You mean Malerick?” His name tastes like something I shouldn’t say out loud.

“Please tell me the doctor is just a physician. Because I wouldn’t trust her with a weapon unless it comes with a five-second delay and a foam tip. ”

One of them snorts. I don’t care which.

“I’m not kidding here.”

“She’s just the medic in the area,” Finnegan confirms, and for a breath, my blood pressure thanks him.

“Though it’d be nice if you could keep an eye on her too.

She’s too close to the Timberbridge family—even when she likes to deny it—and I have this gut feeling the Hollow Syndicate has something against them. ”

“That’s fucking perfect,” I mutter, throwing my head back against the chair. “So you’ve got an asset with enemies on-site. That’s exactly how I pictured my quiet new life—surveillance, potential shootouts, and playing bodyguard to the guy who’s supposed to be in charge. Joy.”

Finn grunts, sounding more irritated than apologetic. “Look, I didn’t know his family was a target. I’m still not even sure they are. But by the time things started to unravel, it was too late to pull him out clean.”

“Have you discussed it with him?” I ask because I know damn well they didn’t.

“No. Do you think it’s necessary?”

“How the fuck would I know?” It slips out faster than it should, rougher than I intend. Defensive. Too telling.

There’s a pause.

“You two were partners in the FBI,” Derek reminds me like I need the goddamn refresher. “That’s why we thought you’d be a good fit for this op. It’s why you decided to open a bar and not even use an alias, right?”

I could lie. Pretend it was a convenience. Say it was strategy because he’s my buddy. But at this point, it’s probably better if they hear it from me before shit gets worse.

“I did it because I might want to settle here,” I confess, dragging the words out like they might burn less if I say them slowly. “Not because of Malerick. Though maybe you should’ve disclosed the full fucking deck before suggesting this mission.”

“Is there a problem?” Derek asks, tone too casual for a question that tight. Like he’s baiting me. Like he already knows the answer and just wants to hear how I’ll approach it.

I glance away, eyes skimming over nothing. I could say no. I could bury it the way I’ve buried everything else. But I’m already neck-deep in this thing, and I sure as hell can’t protect Mal if I keep pretending nothing ever happened between us.

“Let’s just say Mal and I were more than partners,” I admit, voice low, lips pressed into something between regret and resentment. “We were in a poly relationship for a while.”

That’s the clean version. The one that skips past how I loved him too much and still walked away.

How he needed to be with Rachel—or so I thought.

How I let him go without even giving him the courtesy of a goodbye—just left the Bureau like a fucking coward with a suitcase full of grief and my pride duct-taped together.

Finnegan watches me like he’s not reading between the lines—he’s tearing the page in half. “Could you two work together, or do we have to pull you out of there?”

Derek cuts in before I can answer. His voice drops, rough with familiarity and the kind of loyalty that turns dangerous.

“Listen, I don’t work with him on the field for a reason.

” He jabs a finger at Finn, his husband.

“I love him too much to concentrate when things go sideways. Also, I don’t want our wife to worry about the two of us at the same time.

This guy has a history of getting lost during missions. ”

“It was one time.” Finnegan rolls his eyes. “Not that I remember well. Remember, I have amnesia.” He grins, as if he just said the best joke, but no one is laughing.

“It lasted eight fucking years,” Decker reminds him. “That’s not the point. Cassian, can you separate the two? This mission is too fucking important to lose anyone—including you.”

“We can separate our personal life from a mission,” I say without hesitation. It doesn’t come out as a performance. It’s not bravado. It’s the only thing I know for certain right now.

Finnegan lifts a brow. “Are you two getting back together?”

And there it is again—another line crossed. That’s not his business. None of this is. I open my mouth, ready to tell him to fuck all the way off, but he beats me to it.

“I need transparency here,” he says, quiet but insistent. “It’s not just your safety. It’s the safety of every asset we send to Birchwood and every civilian caught in the crossfire.”

I drag in a breath. The air doesn’t help.

“There’s a possibility we might take things casual,” I confess, the words scraping past my teeth like they’ve been hiding behind molars this whole time. “If anything happens, I’ll file it with HR. If that’s what’s keeping you up at night.”

“It’s not only that.” Dereck groans.

“I hate casualties,” Finn says, voice like granite. “More so when they’re my people. I’m protective of them. You die, and I won’t be happy.”

“It’ll be fine,” I insist, even though nothing about this feels remotely close to fine.

Not the proximity.

Not the history I never outran, and definitely not the way Malerick still lingers in my system like an aftertaste I can’t rinse out. He’s in my bloodstream. Still clinging to the parts of me, I thought I’d buried six feet under logic and bad decisions.

But if they’re trusting me with this?

Then, I have to pretend I trust myself, too.

“Fine,” Finnegan says, already moving on. “I’m also sending you some things I found on Desmond Draven, head of the Hollow Syndicate.”

“We found his weakness?”

“There’s an heir. But we can’t trace much. His brother, who died thirty-some years ago, was supposed to take over the Syndicate. Instead, it went to Desmond. There’s a heir—probably his daughter— and some connection to the town . . . I think. Do some digging while you’re pouring drinks, Harlan.”

“That’s easy.” I flash a smile, all bite and bravado. “Bartender by day, secret agent by night. Just slap it on a mug.”

“If you need people, let us know.”

“I might need a couple bodies to help me run the bar while they help me keep an eye on things.” I shrug, trying to look more casual than I feel. “Also, I’m buying a property near the lake. Could be a solid place to set up surveillance.”

Finn nods. “You’ve got equipment at your place, but if needed, you can always go to Mal’s or Atlas’s.”

That name halts me.

“Atlas is an asset?”

“Not exactly,” he says. “Sanford installed the equipment at his place just in case. It’s connected to the network. If we need Atlas to step in, you’ll have to manage him. He hasn’t done any fieldwork in years.”

“And we’ve come full circle to the start of this delightful conversation,” I mutter. “You want me to fucking babysit him.”

He scoffs. “Sure, let’s go with that. Call if you need anything—and be careful.”

“Aren’t I always?” I salute with two fingers and end the video call.

The screen goes black, and I’m left staring at my reflection in the glare. My smirk fades.

Mal.

Tonight, I’ll see him again. However, it won’t just be him. It’ll be her too.

Delilah—mouthy, magnetic, impossible to ignore. She’s the wildcard in all this. The reason the silence between us might actually crack wide open. The way she looks at both of us is like she already knows the things we haven’t said out loud.

Everything will be on the table tonight. No more pretending. No tiptoeing around truths that refuse to stay buried. Not between me and Mal. Not between her and him. Not between me and her.

And if I’m lucky—if the mood shifts, if the timing aligns, if Mal looks at me the way he used to, and Delilah doesn’t pull away when it all combusts—maybe there’ll be more than dinner.

Maybe I’ll get to touch him again—to taste what I never stopped craving . . .

Maybe I’ll get to watch her come apart between us.

Fuck.

The thought-alone coils heat low and tight, dragging across every frayed edge of my restraint. Leaves me buzzing. Hungry. Wrecked before it even begins.

I should be focused on Desmond Draven. The Syndicate. The town.

But all I can think about is the way Malerick looked at me the last time I saw him. Like I still mattered.

And Delilah—who could set a man on fire with one glance and make him say thank you for the burn.

What would it feel like if he stopped holding back?

If she stopped pretending she didn’t want this?

If we all just gave in?

Just once.

Or maybe—if I’m fucked enough—one last time.