Page 4 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)

Chapter Three

Malerick

Cassian doesn’t speak when he walks in—he doesn’t have to. That body, that walk, that fucking gaze . . . it speaks fluent sin.

Delilah . . . she doesn’t even pretend to be subtle. “I don’t know who he is,” she hums, tracking him like he’s something slow-cooked and forbidden. “But I’d give him my number and meet him at the inn without asking for his last name.”

I don’t have to be a mind reader to know he heard us. Cassian doesn’t just walk into a room—he takes it. And when women or men look at him like Delilah just did, he doesn’t flinch or smirk or play coy.

He never does when he’s unraveling someone like this—quietly, thoroughly. Like he’s cataloging reactions before he even speaks a word. And right now, he’s looking at her like she’s already said yes. As if she’s already his.

Anyone would think he’s just studying the place. Nope. He’s already having contact. Direct. Drawn-out. Like he’s dragging his mouth across her throat without laying a finger on her. Like he’s tracing all the places he wants to claim with nothing but his eyes.

He’s fucking her with his gaze.

Not in a clumsy, hopeful way, but with the quiet confidence of a man who doesn’t rush. A man who knows how to strip you bare without laying a single hand on you. Who waits—not because patience is a virtue, but because watching you come apart piece by piece is more rewarding than the finish.

And once you know him—once you’ve let that look hold you long enough—you start to recognize what it means.

It means down on your knees.

It means don’t move unless I say so.

It means you’ll come when I let you and not a second before.

Because that’s what he’s good at.

Letting you think it’s your idea. That you’re in charge. That you’re the one making the moves.

All along, he’s been the one pulling the strings—controlling every breath, every tremble that moves through you like it belongs to him.

And Delilah?

She doesn’t see it yet, but she’s already in it. Already caught.

That look—fuck, I remember it. The same one he used to aim at me when I was too far gone to care. When I still believed it meant something. When I let it undo me.

And now he’s standing there, in this town—my town—aiming that same gaze at her.

Delilah.

Fuck.

What the hell is he doing here?

A flash of heat rises—fierce and stupid. Jealousy, probably . . . but I can’t tell if it’s because he’s looking at her like that or because he isn’t looking at me like that.

Fuck, maybe it’s both.

Then, like it’s nothing, like I’m nothing, his gaze swings back to mine and stays. Direct. Dissecting. A scalpel of attention pressed right to my chest.

He knows.

Of course, he does.

Cassian always knew how to cut without bleeding himself.

Still, I don’t look away.

Because fuck him. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in all these years, it’s that he can break you without lifting a finger, and I’ll be damned if I hand him the pieces this time.

“You two know each other?” Delilah’s brow lifts like she’s caught a whiff of something sour.

I don’t answer fast enough. Cassian doesn’t answer at all.

“Cool,” she says. “Guess I’ll just stand here with my amazing coffee and no context.”

The silence stretches too long. Long enough for Delilah pick up a rag and start wiping the counter, slow and methodical, like she needs her hands to be busy.

Cassian speaks first. Because of course he does.

“I didn’t expect to find you here today,” he says, his voice low and calm, as if he’s commenting on the weather, belonging to this town and having done this for years.

There’s no fucking way I’m responding. He was expecting me, how? I have questions, but I’m not asking them here. Not in front of Delilah, or the town. This is Birchwood Springs Gossip Central, a single word and everyone in town will know more than I’d like to share.

“So, you still not a morning person, huh?” he dares to say as if he knows me. As if we just woke up together yesterday and not so many fucking years ago.

How dare he just drop in like he’s part of the town. As if he didn’t just walk in and rearrange the entire goddamn atmosphere.

I scoff. “Didn’t expect to see you here at all .”

He shrugs, slow and unbothered. “Guess we’re both full of surprises.”

“You’re not a surprise,” I shoot back, the words sharper than I intend. “You’re a fucking headache I haven’t had in years.”

Something crosses his face—amusement? Annoyance? Probably something close enough to entertained irritation. Who the fuck knows with him. Cassian always had a talent at revealing just enough to piss you off but never enough to explain.

“Still got that mouth on you,” he says, stepping closer. “Good to know some things haven’t changed.”

I hold my ground, jaw tight. “Yeah? You know what’s new? You in this fucking town.”

His lips curve slowly, dangerously, and infuriatingly sexy. Then he turns that smile on Delilah. “Well,” he says, “get used to it. I just moved in.”

I let out a bitter, dry laugh. “Fuck no. I’ll pack for you.”

He looks at my cup and, because he’s always been a boundary-ignoring asshole, he takes it from my hand, drinks, and licks his lips like he’s making a goddamn point.

“Still drinking mocha lattes,” he says. “So fucking predictable.”

Delilah gives him a challenging look. “You drink it, you pay for it.”

He gives her that dangerous grin. “What? No welcome-to-town freebies?”

“Not here.”

“That mouth of yours. It’s sassy. I like it,” he murmurs, gaze dragging over hers like a promise. “Trouble looks good on you.”

“Still no free coffee for you,” Delilah says, arching a brow as if she hasn’t noticed the way he’s watching her like a man who already knows how she tastes.

Cassian tips his head toward the window, that smirk curving slow and dangerous. “Shame, really. I was planning to be . . . generous.”

His tongue drags across his bottom lip, slow and sinfully aware. And fuck me—I feel it. Not just the memory of it, but the ache it leaves behind. I know what that mouth can do. How he uses it like a goddamn weapon—gentle when he wants, devastating when he needs to be.

I remind myself he’s doing it on purpose, playing the game and drawing me in while pretending he’s not. He flirts with Delilah as if it’s harmless, all the while dangling every filthy promise I used to fall for.

“I don’t need your generosity,” she says, rolling her eyes, but there’s something in her voice—looser, thinner. The shimmer behind her irritation reveals her true feelings.

She hears him. Feels him. Just like I do.

I bet she’s wondering what that kind of generosity tastes like. How it sounds when it’s whispered against skin. How it feels to be stretched open by that kind of precision.

If she only knew.

If she had any fucking clue what Cassian Harlan can do with his mouth—what he could do with his cock—she wouldn’t be so quick to toss out that sass. Or maybe she would. Perhaps she’d beg for it with her lips still mouthing no.

But what she doesn’t know—what she hasn’t learned yet—is that the high comes with a crash. You don’t just get touched by Cassian.

You get ruined.

And once he’s done, you’re left chasing.

“Pity,” he says, voice low and lazy, dripping with intent, sliding in our ears like honey. It curls down your spine before you know you’re on fire. “Because I believe in reciprocity, sweetheart. Very hands-on hospitality. You give. I give. Tit for tat, babe.”

He leans in—not just toward her, but toward both of us—his body heat kissing the space between, making the air thrum with something reckless. Electricity hovers just beneath the surface, buzzing under the skin.

“Drinks on the house,” he murmurs, his gaze dragging from her mouth to mine. He’s tasting the idea of us. Licking at the edges of temptation, shrinking the space until his breath teases along my jaw. Almost a kiss. Almost a touch. But not enough. Never enough.

“Or anything else you’re thirsty for.”

Then that tongue of his—slow, intentional—slides over his bottom lip like he’s already unwrapping us in his mind.

Pure sin.

Fuck, he knows it too.

“And trust me—when I pour, I don’t stop at half-full. I make sure everyone leaves satisfied.”

Delilah doesn’t say anything. Can’t. Her lips are parted just slightly—eyes dialed in, pupils blown wide like she’s trying not to fall into the gravity of him.

I try to save us both.

“She’s not interested,” I say. But my voice betrays me. It splinters down the middle, raw and wrong, a lie no one believes—not even me.

Because honestly, I want to beg him to . . . to—fuck, why the fuck is he here? Why do I still react like this after all these years?

Cassian’s snort is low and brutal, dragging across my nerves. “Of course,” he says, a voice dipped in smug satisfaction. “Just like you aren’t either.”

Then his gaze drops.

Bold. Brazen. Right to the telltale bulge pressing against the front of my jeans. His smirk widens, filthy and triumphant. And, fuck, he’s right—I’m hard. Painfully, desperately hard. One more breath from him, and I’ll forget where we are. One more word, and I’ll break.

I’m already so fucking close to begging him—almost.

“I’m not,” I bite out. My voice is low, a scrape of denial wrapped in need.

I won’t do this again, I don’t say out loud. I just promise myself that I won’t. Because I know how it ends.

I know what happens when you let Cassian Harlan under your skin.

When you let him in, even a little.

He doesn’t just fuck you.

He fucking wrecks you.

And worse—he makes you crave the destruction.

Every kiss, every thrust, every low, filthy moan against your skin becomes something you need. Something you’d beg for with your spine bowed and your hands gripping the sheets like absolution.

“Somehow,” he drawls, stepping back—but not before his fingers ghost the side of my neck, light as a breath and twice as lethal, “I think this round’s going to be a lot more fun, Timberbridge.”

His touch burns a trail I feel long after it’s gone. A brand hidden in plain sight.

Then he fucking winks.