Page 45 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)

Chapter Forty-One

Malerick

The past few days have come at me like a fucking storm I didn’t see coming. First, Keir disappears. He’s not the easiest man to reach on a good day—constantly muttering about people leaving him the fuck alone, always one wrong look away from snapping—but he still answers.

Always.

No matter how pissed off or shut down he gets, he answers. Except now he doesn’t. Not a single fucking word. No call. No text. Just radio silence. And I don’t know what’s worse: the idea that he’s gone off-grid on purpose or the possibility that someone made that choice for him.

I keep telling myself he’s laying low. That maybe he’s spiraling or holed up somewhere, being his broody, stubborn self. He wants to cash out and get the fuck out. He even suggested we sell Maple Haven and Mom’s house.

Is he really running away? Did someone get to him?

Fuck. The second option keeps clawing at the back of my mind like a feral fucking thing I can’t ignore.

Because if the Hollow Syndicate got to him .

. . if they found him before we could shut this shit down—then he’s not running.

He’s not safe nor hiding. He’s already dead.

Fuck.

As if that wasn’t enough, Lilah’s bakery exploded the same exact way the Doherty Mansion did right after Ledger’s wedding.

It was as if the building was soaked in gasoline and bad intentions.

I got there just in time to watch the place devoured, smoke pouring into the sky like it was erasing her from the town brick by brick.

I saw Lilah collapse into Cassian’s arms—shaking, breathless, broken in that quiet, terrifying way people get when the world takes something too fast for the body to process.

And I stood there, feeling fucking helpless, knowing her mom built that place with her bare hands and that Lilah made it what it is today based on her mother’s dreams.

Then the final blow came. They found a body on Route Nine, just outside Larkspur.

Technically, it’s still in my county, but far enough that it slipped through jurisdiction like a ghost. No name.

No ID. Just locked in the trunk of a wrecked car as someone threw him away.

Word is he was airlifted to Boston, barely alive when they loaded him up.

But he didn’t make it. Died before they landed on the helipad.

I don’t know who he was yet. I don’t know what he was caught up in. But my gut won’t shut the fuck up about it. Every part of this—the fire, Keir going missing, the dead man in the trunk—it all reeks. There’s something rotten crawling underneath it all, and it’s starting to surface.

This isn’t random. This isn’t a coincidence.

It has the Hollow Syndicate smeared all over it like blood on asphalt.

And if they’re back in Birchwood Springs—if they’re crawling around my county like it’s their personal fucking playground again—then it’s only a matter of time before more lives get torn apart.

And I’ve already lost too fucking much.

By the time I reach the cabin, the tension in my jaw has been grinding for hours. The drive gave me too much time to think, too many worst-case scenarios looping like a goddamn fever dream.

When I step inside, the sight of her nearly knocks the wind out of me.

Delilah’s curled in the center of my bed, tucked beneath the fluffed comforter, her hair tangled against the pillow like she’s been fighting nightmares, awake with every slow breath.

She’s wearing one of my old shirts—navy blue, sleeves falling past her hands, the collar slipping off one bare shoulder like it doesn’t know how to stay in place.

And Cassian—he’s wrapped around her like he’s daring the world to try again. One arm draped across her waist, the other bent under her head, fingers threaded through hers. His body’s curved protectively behind hers, chest to back, as if he could absorb whatever might come next.

He’s not just close. He’s guarding her.

His jaw rests against the crown of her head, eyes half-closed, but I know he hasn’t slept.

He’s watching her breath, matching it like he’s trying to memorize the rhythm so he can keep her safe on his own.

There’s a tightness in his posture, even in rest—a man ready to go to war from a dead sleep if someone so much as breathes wrong in her direction.

If she fell apart again, he’d be the first to catch her. Not just because he wants to. Because he needs to.

And she lets him.

“Hey,” he greets me. “You look like shit. Any news?”

I clear my throat. “Rosalinda’s okay,” I say, voice rough. “I just drove by to check on her. My deputy’s parked outside, and they’re installing an alarm system tomorrow morning. Cameras, too.”

Delilah doesn’t move at first, but her eyes open slowly. She blinks like it takes effort to come back to the surface.

“They burned my fucking bakery.” Her voice is cracking. “It’s all gone. Why the hell would they do that to me?”

I want to crawl into bed and wrap myself around her too. Not because I deserve to. Because I don’t think I can sleep until I feel her breathing next to me.

But I can’t move like that yet. Not until the gun’s locked away. Not until I stop seeing flames behind my eyes. I reach the nightstand, open the drawer, and punch in the code to the safe. The soft beep breaks the quiet like a breath being held too long.

I draw the gun from the holster at my hip, check it with instinctive ease, then slide it into the safe and lock it tight. Only after the weapon is secured do I let myself exhale.

I roll my shoulders, rub the back of my neck, then start unfastening the buttons of my uniform shirt. The fabric’s stiff with dried sweat and soot, clinging in places, reminding me of everything we just walked through.

I shrug it off, let it fall across the chair in the corner. The air inside the cabin is warm, the woodstove casting a low amber glow across the floorboards—but my skin still feels chilled beneath it all, like what’s happening outside has already soaked into my bones.

“I fucked up,” I admit, the words tasting bitter. “I shouldn’t have kissed you in broad daylight. People saw. Rumors spread.”

Delilah shifts upright in the bed. She’s not crying anymore—she looks carved out, hollowed, but inside that stillness is something sharper. She’s not falling apart. She’s bracing to fight.

And God help whoever lit the match because Cass and I are planning on destroying them.

Cassian cuts in before I can spiral any further. “It couldn’t have been that. The Syndicate is fast, but not that fast. They would’ve needed more time. Confirmation. A reason. This was planned.”

I nod, jaw clenched. “What if the heir doesn’t like her?”

Delilah’s brow pulls tight. “Whose heir?”

“Desmond Draven’s,” I say, pulling a clean shirt over my head. “The head of the Syndicate. We believe she’s here—either working with him, or he’s trying to find her. We haven’t confirmed which yet.”

Delilah looks wild, radiant in her rage. Not broken. Just cracked open enough to let fire through.

“So, we’ve got the mafioso’s daughter running around our town,” she says, eyes narrowing. “You find her . . .” Her lips curl. “I shoot her.”

Cassian snorts softly. “You’ll have to get in line.”

But there’s something in her voice that holds me tighter than any strategy or briefing ever could. She’s not afraid. She’s fucking furious. And maybe that’s exactly what we need right now—because fear paralyzes, but rage? Rage gets shit done.

And Delilah Mora?

She’s not just someone I kissed.

She’s not just the girl I failed to protect.

She’s the reason I’m going to end this, no matter what it costs.

“So . . . we’re sleeping together?” I ask, and yeah, maybe it’s not the most eloquent line I’ve ever delivered, but I need to hear her say it.

Delilah lifts a brow, gaze steady on mine. “Mom knows I’m here?”

Cassian laughs behind her. His hand is still resting on her hip, fingers curled possessively over the hem of my shirt she’s wearing like it's her armor. “She’s more afraid of her mother than she is of whoever destroyed her coffee shop.”

Delilah snorts. “It’s not fear. It’s knowing what she’s capable of. But maybe I should tell her. Especially if I’m not going back home.”

That hits me in the chest in a way I don’t expect. “How so?” I ask, voice lower now.

I shift closer to the bed, resting my hand lightly against the edge of the mattress, just near her knee. She turns her head toward me, her cheek still pressed against Cassian’s chest, her eyes searching mine as if she’s waiting for the one reason not to run.

“You don’t want me here?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.

I exhale, every muscle in my chest pulled tight.

“Oh, baby,” I murmur, my fingers brushing against hers where they rest near the blanket.

“I don’t just want you. I need you in this bed.

In this room. In this goddamn life. You moving in today would make me the happiest bastard in Birchwood Springs.

” I glance over her head at Cassian. He meets my eyes, and for one breathless second, we both know it.

We’re in this together now—even if we still haven’t figured out what that means.

Even if the last time we loved someone, it blew us apart.

“But I also need to know this is what you want. That you’ve thought it through.”

She nods without hesitation. “Yeah. I don’t want to be close to Mom. What if they do something to her?”

“We wouldn’t let that happen,” Cassian says firmly, the edge in his voice slicing sharply through the air.

Delilah sighs, but there’s a humorless smile on her lips. “It’s not just that. I don’t want to deal with her freaking out. She’s going to be relentless. Morning to night. Passive-aggressive comments, prayer candles, matchmaking schemes. I’ll lose my damn mind handling that twenty-four-seven.”

“That’s fair,” I admit, lips twitching.

“So today is moving day,” Cassian declares. “I’m good with that.” He presses a kiss to the side of her head before nudging her playfully. “Go shower so we can actually get some sleep.”

She huffs out a soft laugh but doesn’t move from the bed—just sinks deeper into Cassian’s arms, her body relaxed for the first time all night.

My shirt hangs on her like it was made for her, sleeves swallowed past her hands, bare legs tangled in the comforter.

And fuck if that doesn’t make it impossible to look away.

I rub a hand over my jaw, the burn of everything still clinging to my skin—smoke, sweat, blood. It’s all soaked into me like I’ve carried the day home in my pores.

“I’m gonna grab a shower,” I say, my voice low, rough with everything I haven’t said.

Delilah lifts her gaze to mine, and for a split second, the storm in my chest settles. Just enough to breathe.

“Don’t take too long,” she murmurs.

It shouldn’t sound like an invitation.

But it fucking does.

They’re both here. In my space. My bed. This wasn’t planned. None of it feels earned or safe. We haven’t even figured out what we are. But tonight, we’re under the same roof. Choosing this. Choosing us, even if we don’t have a name for it yet.

Maybe it’s adrenaline. Maybe it’s trauma. Maybe it’s desperation.

But maybe it’s also something real.

Something that feels a hell of a lot like home.

And for now . . . that’s enough.