Page 46 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)

Chapter Forty-Two

Cassian

Delilah’s still asleep curled next to me like her body finally gave up the fight.

I haven’t moved since she passed out while Malerick was still in the shower.

We barely said good night—just a kiss that lingered longer than it should’ve, his lips grazing mine like he was trying to memorize the taste of surrender.

Then he slid into bed behind her, wrapping himself around her like it was second nature.

Like his body didn’t need permission to claim her. To claim us.

He fell asleep almost as fast as she did.

Now we’re here, the three of us, tangled and warm beneath the sheets. Finally, together. I should be thrilled. Over the moon. But honestly? This fucking sucks in ways I can’t even begin to explain even to myself. They burned her bakery to the ground. Her family legacy—her dream.

Yeah, that nightmare shoved us into this moment—but it’s not fucking fair.

At least she’s safe. She’s here. With us.

The room is quiet, the stillness punctuated only by their breathing—hers light and soft, a fragile cadence against my ribs. His deeper and slower.

I glance down at Lilah again. Her lashes twitch in the faint morning light spilling through the cracked curtain.

A tiny sound escapes her—something between a sigh and the smallest, most adorable snore.

She burrows into the pillow like she’s trying to disappear into me, her thigh draped across mine, stealing more of my heat like it’s hers by right.

She is soft in her sleep. All that fire and fight stripped down to something vulnerable. Her mouth parts slightly, like she’s whispering secrets to a dream lover she doesn’t realize is real.

Across from me, on the other side of her, the mattress dips with the shift of Malerick waking.

I feel the tension ripple through him before I see it.

His hand flexes near hers, like he’s reaching out before he’s even fully awake.

His brows tug together as his eyes open, hazy and dark, the aftermath of sleep still clinging to his voice.

“She’s waking up?”

I shake my head, careful not to shift her too much. “I hope not. It took fucking forever to calm her.”

Mal exhales through his nose. The sound scrapes something inside me. “Have you talked to CQS today?”

“Yeah,” I murmur. “Called them earlier. We’ve got a meeting later. Eleven.”

He nods, jaw ticking. “We found some John Doe nearby—car accident. He didn’t make it.” His voice tightens. “I’m afraid that if we don’t find Keir soon . . . he might be next.”

“Fuck,” I mutter, guilt slamming into me like a punch. “I forgot about him.”

I move carefully, peeling my arm from around Lilah like I’m dismantling a live bomb. Her brow creases, but she doesn’t stir. We’re making too much noise. She needs to rest. Her body deserves some goddamn peace.

Because when she wakes up, I know what’s coming.

The fury’s going to simmer beneath her skin, but it won’t stay there. It’s going to shatter into something quieter, meaner. Grief. That grief is going to cut her open from the inside, and I’ll have to watch her bleed out everything she built. Everything they fucking took.

If she’d been inside . . .

I swallow hard.

I can’t think about that.

I won’t.

Not when my fists are already clenched with the need to destroy the people responsible.

Once we’re both outside the bedroom, I ask him, “What are we going to do? You know that was the syndicate, right?”

He nods. “I still think?—”

“No, it wasn’t you kissing her. I think it’s something else. We’re missing pieces, Mal. I’ve been thinking all night.”

“Did you get any sleep?” he asks before I can continue my thought.

“How could I when this is it? This is when things begin to get worse before we eliminate them.” I continue, “This wasn’t random and I’m sure it wasn’t because you two are together.

Lilah is best friends with the owner of Maple Haven, and she’s close to the Timberbridge women.

Still, there’s more. Did she date someone that might be linked to them? ”

He shrugs. “I wouldn’t know. Delilah was too young when I left. She wasn’t on my radar. Maybe you could ask Atlas—or her.” He taps his chin. “Simone might know.”

“Simone’s leaving town. There’s a new doctor taking over for her.”

“What the fuck?” He frowns.

I shrug. “They probably need her somewhere else. Doctors are like agents. They rotate them depending on where they need to be placed.”

“The town is welcoming her and suddenly, she’s gone.” He shakes his head, disbelief threading his voice. “That’s . . . it doesn’t make sense. It’s like they dragged her out overnight without a warning. Poof, just gone. If that happened to me, everyone would be asking questions.”

“They’d spin a story. Vacation. Family emergency. Someone would fill in temporarily, smile for the patients, and pretend like nothing’s wrong.”

“You think that’s what this is?” His voice drops. “Maybe she’s gone temporarily?”

“Does it matter?”

He shifts, restless energy radiating off him.

“I’ve been thinking—” He pauses, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“Yesterday, during the explosion, it hit me. Ever since Simone showed up, more accidents have happened, and things seemed to be moving faster. Shit’s been escalating.

What if she’s the heir? What if she’s working both sides—for them and us? ”

I drag a hand through my hair. “Fuck.”

“Exactly,” he breathes, eyes locking with mine. “The question is . . . do we tell CQS?”

“Can you confirm she could be the heir?” I ask, even though I know the answer. “Because you can’t report that without proof. We can’t afford to sound like we’re grasping at smoke. Not now.”

“Nobody knows who her father is,” he says, voice turning hard. “Nina Moreau would fuck anything that walked—” He pauses as if he’s testing his theory, “—and she did it to spit in her preacher daddy’s face.” He shrugs like that explains everything.

I snort, then let out a short, breathless laugh. “That’s one hell of a ‘fuck you, Dad.’”

He chuckles, nodding. “Yeah, poetic in a twisted way. But now we’re stuck wondering whether she carried Desmond’s spawn or someone else’s. And I don’t know if I’m jaded or just desperate to connect the dots.”

He’s probably desperate. CQS screens everyone. They would know if Simone was dirty, but I don’t tell him anything because maybe, just maybe there’s some truth behind it. Not that I believe she’s the heir, but she might have enemies connected to the Syndicate.

“Leave it to me,” I say, glancing toward the closed bedroom door. “I’ll dig. I’ll find out.”

He watches me like he knows what I’m about to say next.

“I need to get dressed.”

“You’re not staying?” His voice is low and rough.

“I want to,” I say, honestly. “Fuck, I want to more than you know. But I need to crack this. We need to figure out how to end this before it consumes everything.”

The truth is that I’m fucking desperate, too, and we can’t let them win. We can’t let them destroy the town. This time it was her bakery. Tomorrow . . . they could take her.

Mal moves without warning.

He closes the distance in two strides, grabs me by the collar, and crashes his mouth into mine like he’s been dying for this—like he needs to burn off every fear and frustration with heat. His kiss is bruising, furious, laced with need, and raw fucking hunger.

I kiss him back just as hard.

It’s clumsy, teeth scraping, mouths desperate.

My back slams against the wall, and he’s pressing into me, his hands already tugging at my shirt like it offends him.

I strip his shirt without thinking, fingers trembling as I shove it over his head.

His skin is hot against mine, a fever we can’t shake.

We undress fast. Clumsy. Urgent. There’s no finesse. No patience.

His fingers dig into my hips, grounding me against the wall, lips dragging along my jaw like he’s trying to mark every inch of me. I moan against his mouth, hips bucking forward, our cocks brushing—bare, hard, aching.

He growls, biting my bottom lip.

“Fuck,” I whisper, eyes half-lidded. “You’re not making this easier.”

“You think I fucking care?” he mutters, hand trailing down to wrap around me, stroking once, slow and filthy. “This isn’t about easy.”

His mouth finds my neck, tongue dragging along sensitive skin as I groan and arch into him. We’re lost in it. In lust. In rage. In the desperate fucking need to feel something that won’t vanish when the world burns—something that claws back the power they keep trying to rip from us.

I fist his hair, drag his mouth back to mine, and devour him like he’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart.

Because maybe he is.

Because if we don’t do this now, we might never get the chance again.