Page 9 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)

Chapter Seven

Malerick

Why the fuck did I agree to come to this town? No. The question is, why the fuck are the others waltzing in here?

First Cassian. Then, a few weeks later, Atlas shows up and opens a goddamn tattoo parlor like he’s reclaiming his youth and with a fucking wife. What part of stay the fuck out of Birchwood Springs did they miss?

I warned Atlas. Flat-out. “Don’t come here,” I said.

Okay, it was more like, “Stay the fuck away. You’re not welcome.

” It seemed more appropriate than giving him a warning.

I mean, he should know what’s happening here.

He helped us rescue Nysa from the Syndicate.

But apparently, ink and impulse control are a bad mix.

Cassian? I never thought I’d see him again. Not in a million lifetimes.

After that . . . whatever happened at The Honey Drop, I’ve been avoiding him. Okay—them.

Every time I drive by The Honey Drop, I speed up like it’s a fucking landmine. If I so much as glimpse Cassian on Main Street—hands in his pockets, mouth full of trouble—I vanish into the nearest doorway like a coward dressed in khaki and a badge.

Because I don’t want to have another encounter with him. This town is too small and too gossipy, and anything I do could jeopardize my mission. Is that true? I don’t know, but I’m sticking to that.

Delilah . . . that’s another problem and a half.

Am I attracted to her? Who wouldn’t be? She’s beautiful.

I could say yes to her invitations. The woman is straightforward in what she wants, but the last thing I want is to give the Syndicate any weaknesses.

My brothers, their wives, and my niece are plenty.

Why show them that I have someone I love?

Not that I love her, but it’d be so fucking easy to fall for her.

Do I want to accept her mother’s match-making schemes?

Fuck yes. I wouldn’t want any other man to marry her, but I can’t put her in the middle of this war against Desmond Draven and his cronies.

I have to beat the fucking Hollow Syndicate first.

Do I miss talking to her every day? Fuck yes.

I miss her scent. She smells like nutmeg, vanilla and something I can’t name—something that reminds me I’ve been sleepwalking for years. Her voice stays with me, even when I try to forget it. Even when I run. Especially then.

I hate how much I notice.

The way she laughs when she doesn’t want to. The way she stands a little too close, like she’s daring the world to flinch first. And that mouth—God help me, that mouth was designed for sin and sarcasm.

And then there’s Cassian.

Cassian is a riddle I once solved and promptly forgot how I did. He’s chaos in a leather jacket, haunted eyes, and a voice that used to calm my storms. He kissed like confession. He fucked like a dare. He left like it didn’t kill him.

But I still remember the nights we shared—when silence wasn’t empty, just full of things we weren’t ready to say.

We weren’t meant to survive each other. We were a collision, not a connection. We burned, we blistered, and we buried it.

At least, I thought we did.

Now he’s here, just like that, sitting in her café like the universe wants to remind me that I never really let go.

I should’ve been ready.

But the truth is, I’m not. I’m so far from ready it’s laughable.

It’s been weeks since that morning, and I’m still spiraling. Still pretending this badge is enough to keep me anchored when the ground keeps shifting. I spend my days patrolling like a man with purpose and my nights wondering when everything will crack open again.

Because it will, that’s how this goes. First, you lie to yourself, then to them. Then something explodes.

Cassian being here? That’s the match.

Delilah?

She’s the gasoline.

And me?

I’m the dumbass standing too close, daring them both to light the fuse.

Calm the fuck down, Timberbridge. You’re just all worked up because you just left the tattoo parlor, and fucking Atlas just gave you an attitude.

He did, I went to his new shop to warn him . . . okay, maybe I shouldn’t have been an asshole with him, but why the fuck is he here? I don’t buy the whole ‘I just set up a tattoo parlor and I’m back in Birchwood Springs’ thing. Is he working for Crait Quantum Shield?

I noticed all the cameras in his building.

They said they would be sending assets. I don’t think the new doctor is an asset.

Simone Moreau is just their medical officer on site because they’re expecting casualties.

There’re always two assets on site . . .

it’s probably him. Cassian. There’s no other explanation as to why he’s here.

The question is, why didn’t he change his name? It’s protocol to create a new persona when you’re undercover, isn’t it? He bought the fucking building and started a new business—all under his real name. I didn’t think . . . what the fuck is he doing? He’s blowing off his life?

Since I’m running on adrenaline and rage, I decide to pay a visit to Cassian. It’s time to avoid him and start facing my new reality. He’s here, and I have to make boundaries.

It doesn’t take long to walk from the tattoo parlor to the bar. Birchwood Springs isn’t big, but today, it feels smaller—like it’s folding in on me. Or maybe I’m just unraveling. Maybe this whole week has been one giant unraveling, and I’m the thread that keeps snagging on him.

Cassian fucking Harlan.

I’m not thinking—just moving. Which is dangerous. Because when I think, I see his name on that business license. His real name. Not a fake one. Not a pseudonym with a throwaway backstory like a good undercover agent is supposed to use.

No. He came here as Cassian Harlan. Bought a whole-ass building. Hung his identity on a wooden sign and poured himself into this life, like a continuation. Not something temporary that he’ll erase soon.

It’s almost laughable.

Almost.

If I laugh, I might scream.

By the time I reach the back of the building, my hands are clenched into fists in my coat pockets. The morning’s dragging itself into early afternoon.

I knock once on the back door, then immediately regret how much rage I packed into my knuckles.

Footsteps shuffle behind the door. Slow.

Lazy. As if he just had rolled out of bed or is pretending to have done so.

When it creaks open, Cassian is backlit by the soft haze of a bare bulb overhead.

Sleepy eyes. Hair tousled. A t-shirt slung over one shoulder like he didn’t even bother putting it on properly.

Of course he looks good like that. Of course, he does.

The door swings wide enough for me to see the stairs winding up behind him, likely to the apartment above. And through a narrow hall to the left, I glimpse the bar. It’s dim, quiet, and untouched.

I’m not sure what I expected. A neon sign blinking “Asshole Lives Here”? A strobe light casting a spotlight on his betrayal?

“Sheriff,” he says, voice rough. Still waking up. Or pretending to. With him, I never know anymore. “Didn’t think I’d see you today.”

His tone is too casual. Like this is a perfectly normal day and not a what-the-fuck-is-your-game confrontation in the making.

“You used your real name,” I say. “For a second, I thought maybe you were still working for them but now . . . what the fuck are you doing, Cassian?”

He gives me a lazy smile, the one he always serves when he wakes up and wants to fuck.

Focus, Timberbridge, don’t let him get away.

“Are you working for Crait Quantum Shield?” I snap. It’s too loud. Too bitter. But I don’t take it back. Not anymore. Not after weeks of trying to avoid him and everything he represents. “You’re here undercover to help with the Syndicate, or just fucking with me—again?”

“Does it matter?” he mutters, rubbing his eyes like he’s trying to scrub the truth out of his retinas.

“Why would you blow your fucking cover like that?” I demand because there’s no other explanation. He’s not here for me. “You’re a fucking agent, aren’t you?

The way Cassian’s body jolts, it’s not just a surprise.

It’s terror. Like he’s been caught in the middle of an interrogation, his cover has been blown.

One breath. That’s all he takes before his eyes widen—wild, almost frantic—and every inch of him screams fight-or-flight.

No trace of the cocky smirk he wears like a shield.

Just panic because something is up. I nailed it, right?

I . . . his mouth parts like he’s going to say my name, but the sound dies before it reaches the air, and suddenly I can’t breathe. I know why he’s panicking.

The scent hits me. Nutmeg, vanilla, and something dangerous. When I glance over my shoulder, I see her. Delilah.

“I knew it. I fucking knew it.” Delilah’s voice cuts through like static, smug and bristling with satisfaction. It grates, high-pitched and grinning, as if she’s been waiting to drop the match on a gas leak. “You’re not the fucking sheriff.”

Cass and I look at each other.

“Fuck,” we mutter in unison. Not a curse. A prayer. A realization that we said too much and she knows something. We can save it, we can . . . we . . . what can we say?

Cassian runs a hand over his face, fingers dragging across his skin as if he’s trying to wipe away the last five seconds off it. As if he can erase the expression he couldn’t hide fast enough.