Page 19 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)

Chapter Sixteen

Cassian

If I were smarter, I would’ve walked away the moment she asked for the truth. Fuck, I should’ve walked the second I learned the Syndicate might want the Timberbridges’ heads on spikes.

I don’t want to put her in danger—and I have to protect him and his family.

Can I do both? Certainly, but everything is ten times more complicated.

Logic says I should push her away. Actually, I should ask her to leave the country. Hell, relocate to some off-the-grid village with no cell service and goats for neighbors. Anything to keep her out of this.

And yet . . . here I am. Rooted to the spot like some idiot statue while the drink in my hand sweats through the glass.

Every nerve tuned to the sound of her voice, the beat of her breath, the click of her shoes across the cabin floor.

She’s not even touching me, and my entire body is strung tight, waiting for her next move.

Malerick won’t talk. I know him. I know that silence too well—it’s built into the structure of who he is. So, yeah.

It’s me.

It’s always fucking me.

I set my glass down with a quiet thud that still manages to sound like a gunshot in this tense silence.

“You want the truth?” My voice drops an octave, smoke, and gravel. “Fine. Here it is.”

Delilah doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. But she does finally sit, the drink I poured her cradled in both hands like she needs something to hold or she might combust. She doesn’t sip. Just watches me, her stare all heat and knives.

I start at the beginning. Because anything else would be cowardice.

“We met in the bureau. Partners. I didn’t think it was a good idea. I mean . . .” I laugh, dry and low. “Have you seen him? He’s fucking hot.”

“So you already knew you’d end up fucking him?” She fires back, there’s no preamble. No hesitation.

I smirk, but there’s no humor in it. “No. I don’t assume everyone I find attractive wants to sleep with me. I’m hopeful, not delusional.”

“He’s just . . . look at him.” Malerick cuts in, voice quieter than usual, like he didn’t mean to speak but couldn’t help himself. “I’d never been into guys. But him? There’s something about him that makes you want him even when you don’t understand why.”

Delilah nods, sipping her drink like it’s water and not something burning down her throat.

“It was our third mission,” I say, leaning against the kitchen counter, too wound up to sit. “We were undercover. Bodyguards for one of the top brass in an organized crime ring. She was an assistant. High heels, fake smiles, cold eyes.”

“She played the part,” Malerick murmurs. “Played us too. First time we had sex . . . it was a threesome.”

Delilah’s jaw doesn’t drop. No dramatic gasp. But her expression sours like I’ve just ruined her favorite dessert. “So that’s why you need me?” she asks. “You’re just trying to recreate the past?”

I shake my head fast and hard. “No. Absolutely not. Would it be fun if the three of us had sex?” I glance between her and Malerick. “Sure. I’d be an idiot to say otherwise. But that’s not why I want you. That’s not what this is.”

Her eyes narrow. She has that I’m-two-seconds-from-walking look.

So I keep going because if I stop, I might lose her.

“We never talked about what happened that night,” I admit. “But it wasn’t the only night. Not by a long shot. At some point, it wasn’t just about her. It was about us too.”

I pause, heart thudding. “I touched him. He touched me. And it wasn’t just sex anymore. It was needed. It was safety. Maybe even love—but we never said that out loud.”

Delilah blinks.

“We moved in together. Separate rooms. Didn’t last. We ended up in the same bed most nights—unless we found a third. Then it was whoever’s place worked best.”

Malerick adds quietly, “Then came Rachel.”

“She was our neighbor,” I explain. “She slid into our lives like she was meant to be there. No questions, no hesitations. She was warm. Open. Needed us.”

“She liked to be the center,” Malerick murmurs, his tone unreadable.

“Six months passed in that blur,” I continue. “Then we got sent away on a mission. When we came back, Rachel was different. Clingy. Distrustful. Possessive.”

“She gave us an ultimatum,” Malerick finishes for me.

“She wanted commitment,” I clarify. “I thought we had that. But for her, it meant one of us had to leave. She didn’t want three. She wanted a choice.”

Delilah’s brows draw in. “But weren’t you two together?”

I exhale, slow and ragged. “That’s where it all went to hell. I thought we were all together—her, him, me. But maybe that was just my illusion.”

“So there was no communication,” she concludes.

“In some ways, it was just sex and fun,” Malerick offers, voice flat. Like he’s trying to convince himself more than her.

“We were in our twenties—too self-absorbed in work and having a good time. I thought we were okay.”

Malerick snorts. “We obviously weren’t.”

“So you didn’t love each other?”

The room stills. Silence blooms, but it’s not peaceful. It’s a minefield.

My jaw twitches. I glance at Malerick, knowing I’m about to say the one thing that’ll gut us both. His expression is unreadable, but his hands are clenched, knuckles white. I know that look. I’ve seen it before—in the mirror. In warzones. In grief.

Love?

It wasn’t that simple.

I loved him like I didn’t know how to love anyone else. With everything broken and stitched together inside me. With a need that carved through sex and jokes and third parties. But I didn’t have the language for it. Neither did he.

Malerick didn’t grow up in a home that taught love. He grew up learning survival. Love was a weakness. Intimacy was a threat.

So we touched and teased and fucked, but we never said what we were.

And maybe we were both too scared to ask.

I scoff. “I don’t know what it was. But it wasn’t nothing.”

Malerick’s gaze meets mine. For a second, just a breath, I see something flicker there—loss, want, regret. Then it’s gone.

Delilah doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

But I can feel the moment she softens—just a sliver. The air shifts. Barely.

I don’t push it. I just let it breathe between us.

“I didn’t come here to recreate the past,” I say. “I liked you the moment you barreled into the bakery at three in the fucking morning like it was normal. I came tonight because I don’t want to lie to you. Not about this. Not about him. Not about what you could mean to me if you give us a chance.”

Her mouth opens. Closes. No words.

And I get it.

Because when I look at her, everything burns. Every fuck-up, every mistake, every person I’ve failed. It’s all here.

And she might walk.

She probably should.

But if she stays . . .

“We weren’t supposed to be anything,” Malerick states. “The job doesn’t leave room for things like that. But it happened. And it was fucking good until it wasn’t.”

I don’t look at Malerick. I can’t.

“Rachel’s ultimatum fucked everything up. I told her I loved her, hoping she wouldn’t leave,” he states.

“And I—I walked away. Didn’t say goodbye. Just vanished.”

“Why?” Delilah’s voice is quiet now, stripped of sarcasm. Just raw.

“Because I didn’t want to watch him choose someone else every day and still expect me to be his backup in the field,” I say instead. “Because I didn’t want to become bitter and reckless. So I left. And I kept leaving. Until now.”

Silence folds around us, thick and tight.

“Then why come here?” she asks. “Why Birchwood Springs? Why the bar? Why the hell are you still here?”

“For the mission,” I lie—too easily.

It rolls off my tongue with the ease of muscle memory. A reflex. Years of practice wrapped in that single word.

But then her gaze collides with mine.

“I’m in my forties, Delilah.” My fingers drift to the back of my neck, dragging over skin that feels too tight.

“It’s time to stop pretending I’m not tired of running.

And when they said the job was in this town .

. .” I glance away, not because I’m ashamed, but because looking at her while saying this makes my chest ache like I’ve been punched from the inside.

“I remembered how I felt back then. When we were . . . whatever we were. It felt like home.”

My eyes flick to Malerick.

“When I saw you two in your coffee shop . . .” I let out a dry laugh, more breath than sound. “Call me crazy, but it looked like something I didn’t think I’d ever get to have.”

I take a step closer to her, then stop myself. Stay grounded. “I thought maybe—just maybe—I could build something tangible, real, out of everything that fucking broke me.”

That’s the truth. Not some scripted intel bullshit.

This is the scraped-knuckles, two-a.m.-vomiting-up-guilt kind of truth.

Not just about Malerick. About her. Because I see it in her eyes—how she looks at both of us like she’s already halfway gone and we’re the drop and the impact she won’t survive.

“You shouldn’t have come back,” Malerick says.

His voice is smoke and sandpaper, tearing through the quiet. He turns, finally, and meets my gaze. His eyes are dark. Closed-off. But I can still read them like a fucking confession. “You should’ve left it buried.”

I snap before I can stop myself. “You’re one to talk. Hiding here like you’re not bleeding out every time someone gets too close. I’ve seen corpses more alive than you when she walks in the room.”

His jaw twitches. That’s the only sign I get. But it’s enough.

Now they’re both staring at me. Malerick with fury he’s trying not to feel, and Delilah with something worse—something that feels like understanding. Compassion.

And, fuck, that’s more dangerous than rage.

“Here’s the part you won’t like,” I say, dragging my voice low. Truth is a blade now, and I’m handing it to them handle-first. “I’m not here to fall in love. I’m here because the Hollow Syndicate has its claws in this town, and someone’s got to dig them out.”

“And me?” Delilah asks. “Where do I fit into your mission? Was he right? Am I just a toy?”

It’s not a whisper. It’s not a plea.

It’s a challenge. She’s daring me to give her everything that’s needed.

“You weren’t supposed to be a part of this.”

Her throat bobs like she’s swallowing a thousand words she won’t say.

“But now . . .” I take a breath, and it feels like I’m standing naked in a goddamn hurricane. “Now I think you might be the reason I stay after it’s over.”

Malerick exhales. It hits like a slow, inevitable collapse. I feel it in my bones. In the space between my ribs where regret lives.

Then she says it.

“Then tell me,” Delilah whispers. “Tell me what you want.”

And that?

That’s where it all starts to unravel.

Because I want too much.

I want her mouth. Her laugh. Her anger.

I want the nights where she pushes me away and the mornings where she pulls me close like maybe—just maybe—I make the air easier to breathe.

I want Malerick’s silence turned into sound. I want the way he used to look at me like I was gravity itself—like I was the only thing keeping him from drifting too far.

I want something that looks like belonging. Not safety. Not convenience.

Belonging.

“I want . . .” My voice falters, then rebuilds itself into something honest. Raw. “I want to stop pretending I never loved this man, who never let me love him.”

Silence.

“And I want to stop pretending I didn’t walk into that coffee shop and fall for you the second you told me to pay for my own fucking coffee.”

That earns me a laugh. Choked. Dry. But it’s there.

“I want both of you,” I say, softer now. “Not because I’m selfish. Not because I need a fix. But because I think . . . I think we could be something real if we weren’t so scared of it.”

Delilah doesn’t move.

Malerick doesn’t speak.

And I?

I don’t breathe.

Because this?

This is where the story turns.