Page 18 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)

Chapter Fifteen

Delilah

If this is a trap, it’s a beautiful one.

The cabin is nothing like I expected. I thought “neutral ground” meant some run-down shack with creaky floors, rusted hinges, and a single lightbulb swaying like a horror movie prop. Something where secrets got spilled, and bodies disappeared.

But this? This is wilderness couture.

All glass and warm wood, the kind of place that probably smells like whiskey and heartbreak on a good day. The deck spills toward the lake like it’s reaching for an apology it’ll never get. Like it’s waiting for someone to fall.

I hover on the threshold, breath snagging mid-snark. My boots crunch against the snow as I step forward, reluctant and already regretting how easily I could fall for a place like this.

“This is like a mansion in the woods,” I mutter, low and judgmental, because awe feels like weakness when I’m with them. I shake it off like I’m brushing away a sin.

Cassian’s already inside—because, of course, he is. He shrugs out of his coat with that maddening, effortless grace. The kind that should come with a goddamn warning label: Will ruin your ability to form coherent thought.

He glances over his shoulder. “You coming in, or planning to loiter dramatically?”

“You two brought me to a lake house like you’re about to propose,” I shoot back, stepping inside. The hardwood beneath me groans.

“Where did Mal get this?”

Cassian’s smile creeps in slow, dangerous. “We brought you here for a conversation, and suddenly I’m on one knee?”

No one explains why Malerick’s been living in that shoebox apartment when he clearly has a cabin straight out of an architecture magazine. Which begs the question—what the hell is he hiding out here for?

“Stranger things have happened,” I mutter, brushing snow from my coat. “Just remember, you’re bachelor number two. My mother has high hopes.”

The fireplace crackles behind him. Warmth creeps into me slowly, hesitant—like even the fireplace knows I shouldn’t get too comfortable.

The place smells like cedar and something else—something faintly spicy and male.

Like Malerick, but with bourbon buried in it.

Cozy, infuriatingly so. The kind of cozy that disarms people before it devours them.

Malerick is in the kitchen, by the stove, in a worn gray hoodie that stretches over broad shoulders like it was sewn directly onto skin.

He’s barefoot, which shouldn’t be sexy but absolutely fucking is.

He looks like he’s been here forever, like this is his kitchen, his domain.

He stirs something in a pan with lazy precision and doesn’t even glance up when he speaks.

“If either one of you want something to drink, check by the bar.”

“We’re drinking already?” I ask, even though I could use one . . . or two. Because this? This is a terrible idea dressed like temptation and smirking like sin.

“You think we’re being reckless, don’t you?” Cassian murmurs.

“I think you’re trying to start a fire with wet kindling.”

His mouth twitches. “Probably. But I hope you’re ready for the consequences.”

Malerick snorts without looking up at me. “And you’re the kindling?”

“I’m the fucking match,” I say before I can stop myself.

It’s too loud in the silence that follows.

Cassian’s eyes flash something molten. He steps to the bar, grabbing a bottle with a familiarity that reminds me he’s a bartender. He doesn’t ask what I want. Just starts pouring like he already knows how I take my pain.

I watch them. I can’t help it.

Cassian moves with clipped elegance, jaw tense, mouth unreadable—like a man who’d ruin you with good manners and then apologize for your orgasm like it’s part of the service.

And Malerick—God, Malerick. All rugged lines and silences that say too much. He doesn’t move like Cassian. He’s slower, looser. There’s something worn in him, something bruised. Something that makes me ache before I even know where.

My heart stumbles.

Because I’m here. In this place. With them.

And something’s about to happen.

Something I won’t be able to pretend away in the morning.

I told myself this was a game.

That I could flirt and firebomb my way out of anything.

But if either of them touches me tonight—really touches me—it might stop being one.

And I don’t know who I’ll be when it’s over.

My pulse skitters. I should say something. Make a joke. Make an excuse. But I just stand there, watching them move around this space where every inch of it dressed in civility but humming with something darker.

Cassian hands me a glass, brushing my fingers with his. “Sip slowly. Things get hotter from here.”

Malerick finally looks up.

And fuck me—I’m not ready.

“Well, aren’t you getting a little too ahead of yourself,” I smirk, trying to find my strength before I beg for something. I'm not sure what they have to offer, but I’m already needy, aching for a little release. That’s how much I want this—either one of them.

“But you do realize something’s going to happen, right?” Cassian gives me a look.

It’s not just any look though. This one coils heat low in my stomach and makes my thighs press together as they’ve suddenly forgotten how to behave. It’s all jaw and eyes and sin held together by self-control that feels like it’s seconds from snapping.

It’s a look that dares me to kneel.

Or ask if I can ride him until neither of us remembers why we ever tried to pretend this wasn’t inevitable.

I take another sip, pretending the alcohol is what’s burning me from the inside out. It’s not. It’s him. Cassian fucking Harlan, with his battlefield eyes, grumbly voice, and a mouth that promises too much.

“You’ve already written the ending,” I say, eyes dragging from one to the other, “and now you’re trying to rewrite the plot halfway through. That’s not how stories work.”

Neither of them flinches. Not even a blink.

“First of all,” I continue, setting the glass down because my hands are too warm now, “I need details. Not the clean version where you hide the good and the nasty parts. Not just the ‘we worked together, surprise’ line you two threw at me like it explains everything. There’s more. A lot more. And I want all of it—now.”

Malerick shifts, just barely, but it’s enough. The pan on the stove hisses, as if it’s reminding him that everything can burn if he’s not careful. Cassian doesn’t move at all, but his silence is thunderous.

They look at each other.

And that silence?

It crackles.

There’s something buried there—years, maybe. Regret. Want. History carved deep and unfinished.

I lean back against the counter, crossing my arms because I need a barrier between me and whatever the hell this is. “You brought me here for a reason. We all want the same thing, so let’s not pretend you don’t. So talk.”