Page 39 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)

Chapter Thirty-Five

Malerick

The Last Light bar smells like cedar wood and spilled bourbon.

I close the door behind me, the soft click swallowed by low music and the scrape of a chair dragging across old hardwood.

Cassian’s not behind the bar—which throws me.

He’s always there. Always watching. Always calculating.

Unless he has the night off. That’s when he’s upstairs.

Monitoring something in the town, working remotely for CQS, or somewhere with Atlas.

He thinks I don’t know, but I’ve noticed him heading to the gym when Atlas is also off to the gym, the shooting range or a warehouse that they treat like a war room. Practicing combat like they’re prepping for a final act no one else knows about.

War is coming and I’m not sure if it’ll be the Syndicate or Blythe’s husband who gets here first. Maybe it’s be a tie.

Atlas and I—we’ve already gone a few rounds.

We’ve aired out the shit that clung between us.

He knows I never hated him. But getting close again?

That’s going to take time. Time and effort and more fucking patience than I’m known to have.

At least now he trusts me enough to protect her. His wife. Or is it partner?

I still don’t know what the hell they are to each other.

That bond—it’s complicated. Maybe she’s just a temporary shadow he’s hiding from the monster she married.

Perhaps she’ll vanish when that threat finally burns out.

But I doubt it. He looks at her like he’s already chosen her.

Like his every instinct is dialed into her.

I’ve seen that look before.

Ledger has it when he watches Galeana as if she holds the only truth he believes in.

Hops goes soft and wild around Nysa, like she’s the only person who knows how to calm the storm inside him.

And Keir . . . Keir had it with Simone. That boy looked at her like the fucking sun came up for her alone. Until he had to leave this town. Last time I saw Simone, she told me never to mention his name again.

Guess that didn’t have a happy ending.

I move deeper into the bar, passing a couple tangled in a booth, a man passed out near the jukebox, and the bartender—who isn’t Cassian—counting tips with one eye on the door. The place is slowing down. Almost closing time. Two in the morning, and it shows.

I make my way to the stool closest to the wall. My unofficial spot.

I don’t come here often. Cass swears I scare the patrons when the sheriff—me—sets foot in this place.

Apparently, my presence is bad for business.

So, I wait. I show up late. When the beer’s flat, the lights are low, and the only customers left are too drunk to care who I am or what I could do if they do something stupid.

It’s the perfect time to clear the place out.

I slide onto the stool, my back to the wall, my gaze sweeping over the shelves behind the bar. There it is. A bottle of Macallan. Cassian knows it’s the one I like. When I show up, he just pours.

And like clockwork, he walks in from the back. No surprise in his expression. No raised brows. Just those eyes that see through everything cutting straight to the bones we try to bury.

“You look like shit. Rough day?” he says, already reaching for the bottle and two glasses.

I rub a hand down my face, skin hot from the day’s fire I can’t put out. “What do you think the sheriff does? Origami? Cooking classes?”

He snorts—deep, amused, and faintly judgmental. Like I should know better than to answer questions with sass.

He pours.

I take the glass and bring it to my lips. One sip and it burns like it always does—low and slow down my throat, licking heat into places I hadn’t realized had gone numb. It doesn’t fix anything.

But it helps.

Not much.

Just enough to keep breathing.

I don’t ask about his day. I already know he saw Lilah at my place. If there was ever a moment I regretted not installing cameras all over the damn property, it’s that one.

Not because I’m jealous.

I would’ve just wanted to watch them.

To know what it looks like when she’s not holding back.

To see if he touches her the way he used to touch me.

Her face. His hands. That tension that hangs between them, pulling taut like it might snap and take them both down with it.

We sit in silence for a while. The kind that crackles. Not awkward. Not comfortable. Just filled with things neither of us says out loud. The bar has emptied, the only sound coming from the ice shifting in my glass and the low hum of the refrigerator.

“I talked to Keir,” I say after a long stretch.

Cassian glances over slowly, his eyes narrowed with that guarded calm he wears like armor. “That’s your other brother, right?”

“Yep.”

He nods, but the way I say it must give something away. His brows pull together.

“Why do you look worried?” he asks, voice low, words weighted with something he doesn’t push on.

“He wants us to sell Old Birchwood Timber. We’ve got a great offer.”

Cassian stills, fingers pausing on the rim of his glass. “Does he know about the Syndicate?”

I shake my head. “Definitely no. He’d come and try to set something on fire. Keir punches first, then asks questions.”

Cass’s mouth tips in a small, grim smile. “We can’t have him in town.”

“I know. I hope that ‘no’ is enough, but . . . it’s money, and sometimes I think that’s all that drives him.”

His eyes cut to mine. “Or maybe that’s all you let drive him.”

The sentence lands like a gut punch—because it’s not wrong. Keir’s always been easy to push toward dollar signs. He’s smart. Dangerous when he wants something. Right now, what he wants is to escape this town forever.

I down the rest of my drink, let it scorch whatever truth tried to crawl up my throat.

“A guy I used to know. Said the Syndicate’s getting bolder. Less quiet. Less careful.”

Cassian doesn’t flinch. Just sets his glass down and leans forward. “How bold?”

“They’re sniffing around again. People are scared. Even if they don’t know why.”

He nods slowly, his jaw tightening as if he’s holding something back. “You think they know about Blythe?”

“No. Not yet.” I exhale, the answer bitter on my tongue. “But it’s not going to stay that way forever.”

Cassian looks down at his hands. He flexes them, slow and controlled, but the motion betrays more than he probably intends. Like he’s fighting the urge to hit something—or protect someone.

Or maybe he already has. I’ve seen that tension in him before—when someone crosses a line. He flexes again, knuckles whitening. Not like he’s nervous. Like he’s ready to break something or someone.

I don’t ask who.

He’s worried.

So am I.

There’s a tension in the room that settles in my chest like too much smoke.

“You want to stay for the night?” he asks, voice low, quiet in a way that feels more intimate than it should.

I glance toward the windows out of instinct. “People might see me.”

He shrugs, not even trying to argue. “Fine. Stay until she arrives. Then you can go home.”

It’s not much. Not an invitation. Not a plea.

But I take it anyway.

I nod because I need something real tonight. Something warm and breathing and close enough to make me forget that everything outside this bar is unraveling. Even if it’s just a few minutes. Even if all I get is a stolen kiss in a room that smells like whiskey and burnt cedar.

Even if it has to be enough for now.