Page 56 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)

Chapter Fifty-Two

Cassian

Birchwood Springs doesn’t seem to realize what’s happening right under their noses. Everyone still walks around like this is some safe, sleepy little town where nothing ever goes wrong—where the biggest scandal is someone switching churches or getting caught buying boxed pie crusts at the store.

They have no fucking idea.

We’re no longer ahead of it. We’re scrambling to hold the line with nails and prayer, and I swear, one of these days, luck’s going to run out.

Every morning there’s a new agent slipping into town like they’ve been here since forever. They blend in. The population has gone up by thirty and not a single person’s questioned it. No one notices a damn thing. They’re searching, digging . . . and still, we haven’t found the heir.

I need to talk to Rosalinda. Or maybe her entire knitting club.

They’re more than just adorable, nosy old ladies with yarn addictions.

They’re the gatekeepers of every secret this town has ever tried to bury.

Birchwood Springs’ living, breathing history—except their stories come with café gossip and a splash of tequila.

But what if they’re not looking for an heir?

What if they’re targeting the heirs of Old Birchwood Timber—Michael Timberbridge’s bloodline?

What if this entire operation was not only to take over the town but also a twisted, calculated fuck-you intended to destroy Mal and his brothers?

And we’re all just sitting here, sipping maple lattes, licking powdered sugar off our fingers, completely unaware that this isn’t just a takeover—it’s a slow, methodical culling.

One by one. Like someone’s checking names off a blood-soaked list. They think Keir is dead—at least he’s been reported as missing for the past three months.

He’s actually hiding at a safe house with Simone and has no problem staying there until we tell him it’s safe to come out.

His brothers are all marked and I’m not sure who’s next. Mal? Fuck, their own father is doing this shit.

“You’ve been working all morning. Shouldn’t you take a break?”

Delilah’s voice slices through the murky thoughts in my head. I glance up just as she walks into the room and gestures at the array of monitors behind me.

“I’m pretty sure this looks exactly like NASA’s launch room.”

“No.” I grin, holding out my hand. “Our systems are a lot better.”

She rolls her eyes but takes my hand anyway. Her fingers cool, my blood heating instantly.

I kiss her temple and ask, “Not that I mind you visiting me here, but what’s happening?”

“As I said, you’ve been holed up in here since we arrived—at five in the morning,” she adds, arching an eyebrow. “Do you ever sleep?”

“Rarely,” I murmur, tugging her down until she’s straddling my lap.

Her body settles over mine like she belongs there—because she fucking does. I grip her hips and pull her closer, grinding her against the hard-on pressing through my jeans. Letting her feel exactly what she does to me.

“Can we have noon sex?” I ask, voice low against her throat, “or is your mom around?”

Lilah snorts, but her eyes flashing with heat. Her breath catches as my hands slide beneath the hem of her shirt.

“She’s downstairs,” she murmurs. “Which reminds me . . . I’m concerned.”

“That we can’t have sex while you’re working because she’s always here?” I arch an eyebrow because I can spend more money on the bakery and speed up the re-construction.

“No. She said, ‘Your dad was outside,’” Lilah continues, fidgeting, trying to play it off with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “That we should probably just leave town now. According to her, Canada seems like a good place to start a new bakery.”

Suddenly, I’m not smiling anymore. Everything inside me grinds to a halt.

Rosalinda’s been on edge for weeks. I’ve seen it. The way her eyes dart to empty doorways. The way she crosses herself three times before speaking a name. And now this?

Rosalinda has been concerned a lot about her late .

. . who was Delilah’s dad to her? Were they married?

I’ve never heard her say, “My late husband.” It’s always “Lilah’s dad.

” Which is strange, isn’t it? Why hadn’t I thought of that before?

I’m too focused on Lilah. Not only that, I’ve been working hard to please my future mother-in-law.

The rest didn’t seem important. Not until now.

Now that he’s . . . haunting her. I don’t know what to do or say because, as irrational as it may seem, I’ve noticed her being too anxious lately. As in the danger is imminent.

“That’s . . .” I clear my throat, still holding her hips, not sure if I should comfort her or get up and check the fucking windows. “Because she’s afraid of ghosts?”

It’s a weak attempt to keep things light, to stall long enough to think through the clues I’ve missed—more like ignored.

“She’s not hallucinating,” she says quietly, fingering the bracelets stacked on her wrist. Her mom insists she wear them—good luck charms, protection, and superstition eaved into glass and metal.

“We’ve had her checked. Neurologist. Psych eval.

She’s almost sixty, perfectly sound. No cognitive decline, no breakdown.

Just . . . this irrational fixation with my father. ”

I study the bracelets she wears closely. One has a fat blue evil eye bead. Another is thick with a little plate—big enough to fit a flash drive—it glints silver with what I assume might be an etched prayer. And the last—glass with something clear sloshing inside.

“Is that . . . holy water?”

She nods. “She says they’ll keep me safe.” Lilah sighs. “As much as I hate them, I wear them because it gives her a peace of mind.”

“Can I see this one?” I point at the bracelet with the inscription. When I read it, it’s not Spanish. Does looks more like Latin? “Where did she get it?”

She shrugs. “My father gave it to her. It’s probably an heirloom. I honestly never asked.”

I don’t say anything, but suddenly it clicks. It’s not a superstition. Nor a warning. It’s something built for bloodlines, not bedtime stories. The bracelet suddenly feels like a locked door. Something that might have answers if I could just find the key. It’s probably the inscription.

I pull out my phone, frame the engraving, and snap a picture. Finnegan might know someone—or have people who can figure out the origin of it. Or maybe he can read the damn thing himself. He speaks three or four languages.

“You know,” she purrs, tone dropping like a lit match into gasoline, “if you’re quiet enough . . .”

She shifts against me, her hips rolling slow, deliberate, molten. Her breath tickles the shell of my ear as she grinds against my length, her mouth brushing my skin like a promise I want to fucking cash in on.

“. . . maybe I can take care of your . . .” she rolls her hips again, slower this time, a smug smirk in her voice, “friend.”

Fuck.

My fingers flex at my sides, every nerve wired and raw. Every cell in my body says yes. My body is screaming for hers. My cock is pressing so damn hard against my zipper it feels like it might tear through. I want her. Here. Now. Desk. Wall. Floor. I don’t give a fuck where.

Every instinct I’ve buried claws to the surface. My body is begging me to let her do it. Let her take over. Let her ruin me. And, fuck—I want that.

It’s impossible to want her this much and feel this cold inside. Like I’m hard and haunted at the same time. Something inside me—something not logical or safe, something twisted and protective—fights back. Because somehow, I think she’s in danger.

I probably should lock every door in this fucking building. Not because I’m afraid of the ghost. Because of the creeping, cold certainty in my gut.

Lilah’s father isn’t dead, just like Michael Timberbridge.

There’s something deeper happening here. Something I should’ve caught earlier. I didn’t ask enough questions because I thought it was simple. Just another syndicate fucking everyone over because they could. But there’s a history here that hasn’t finished writing itself.

And I have a soon-to-be mother-in-law to interrogate. Not out of duty. Not out of suspicion, but because I have the feeling that Rosalinda isn’t just keeping her daughter safe lately. That she’s been doing it for decades.

And, fuck . . . maybe we’ve been standing next to Desmond’s heir this entire time—sleeping beside her.

Kissing her.

Falling for her.

Without even knowing the goddamn storm she was born from.