Page 37 of The Last Call Home
I pause, then arch a brow.“Oh, she’s going with the ‘ghost under the sink’ curse.Classic.”
I nod like I’m approving of her, trying hard not to laugh.It’s ridiculous—and hilarious—that this man believes her nonsense.
“She was pretty serious about calling on my ancestors,” he says, grim like her words came with consequences only the brave or stupid ignore.
“That sounds deeply spiritual,” I deadpan.“But you’re safe.There’s no heart to break, Mal.”
The words come out with more confidence than I feel.I glance at the pastries so I don’t have to look at him—at the way he’s watching me, like there’s something he wants to say but can’t.
“Anything to eat?”I ask.“Or did Mom fill your fridge while hexing it?”
His mouth twitches.“Keep mocking me, but I’m afraid of your mother.”
Then I burst into laughter—loud, unfiltered, curling through me like something I shouldn’t enjoy but do anyway.
His eyes crinkle.The corners of his mouth pull in that half-smile that never quite makes it all the way up to his eyes.
“Blythe is working with Atlas,” he says, like that’s supposed to change the mood.
“I know,” I reply, shrugging like it doesn’t matter.“I told him to hire her.”
“Of course you did.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
He leans against the counter like he’s anchoring himself.“I have a gut feeling.”
“That she’s part of the mafiosos?”I whisper with a mischievous grin.
“Fuck, Delilah, don’t say that in here.”He glances around like someone’s going to pull a gun out of the pastry display.
“I wasn’t loud,” I whisper, fighting a smile.“Believe me, the last thing I want is for that to blow up.You still owe me an explanation.”
He straightens.“About?”
I shoot him a look.“Everything.Including the—” I lower my voice to a whisper, “—mafiosos.”
His mouth opens, then closes.Suspicious.Calculating.Like he’s trying to figure out how much I actually know—and how much I’m letting him believe I don’t.I want Mal to say something.Anything.Even if it’s wrong.Even if it’s not enough.But his silence is louder than my pulse, and that’s already screaming.
However, something suddenly shifts.It’s not a sound or a movement, just a change in the atmosphere.A tug beneath the surface of everything that makes sense.
Ding.Ding.
The bell above the door chimes before it opens, letting in a gust of wind that doesn’t quite belong.It brushes across the back of my neck, and something inside me goes still.
Cassian steps in like a fucking storm disguised as a man—coat unbuttoned, hands shoved into his pockets, eyes already sweeping the café like he owns every square inch of it.
Of course it’s him.
It seems like this man doesn’t just enter the room—he claims it.Like the space was waiting.Like we were.
The energy shifts again.
Doesn’t thicken.
It tightens.
Low and slow, like a warning that hums in my blood.Lust curled under tension.Malerick stiffens, and I don’t have to glance at him to know his jaw is locked, hands clenched.
