Page 79 of The Last Call Home
Nothing feels safe when I imagine how it could be—if we let go of the restraint if we stopped pretending that this doesn’t mean something.If we gave in.Not to mess.Not to drama.But to something honest.Something that burns like sin and salvation.
Fuck, thinking about it makes it harder to sleep.
It makes breathing feel like work when I picture her mouth parted with need.When I remember how Mal grips the edge of the bar like he’s one second away from pulling me across it.When I see her looking at both of us like we’re hers—and she doesn’t even know it yet.
Mal and I see each other more often, but most of the time, it’s all about work.About the Hollow Syndicate and the next whisper of a threat.It’s not about us.Not about her.Not about the three of us becoming whatever the hell this is turning into.
We have to be careful.
Because even a hint of this thing between us could turn into ammunition.Something they could use.Something that could ruin her.
Especially her.
If Lilah’s name ever got dragged into the wrong conversation—if the Syndicate even caught wind that she mattered to us—it wouldn’t stop at rumors or backroom talk.
It’d end in blood.
And that’s not melodrama.That’s our fucking reality.
The more time I spend in this town, the more I realize the Timberbridge brothers have targets painted on their backs.Maybe they always have.But now, the Syndicate’s closing in.
As if that isn’t enough, Atlas is playing house with a woman he claims is his wife.
Except she’s not.
She’s hiding—from a man who left bruises on her skin and fingerprints on her soul.A man who won’t stop until he drags her back—or destroys her trying.And that bastard has power.Influence.Connections that snake too close to the Hollow Syndicate to be coincidence.
Atlas decided she was worth protecting, even if it means building a lie so thick it leaves no room for truth.
He hasn’t told his brothers.Not even Mal, who might actually help instead of standing back.But Atlas refuses.Won’t let them in.There’s too much history between them.Too much hurt that never got patched up.And I don’t get it—not really.Not how two men who’d take bullets for strangers can’t figure out how to talk to each other without drawing blood.
I’ve worked with both Timberbridge brothers.Seen how they move.How they protect.They’re loyal as fuck.Fierce and relentless.And just broken enough to think they have to do everything alone until the world knocks them flat on their backs.
So, I’m here.As a bar owner, Atlas’s backup, and also a vigilante.Being Atlas’s babysitter isn’t my favorite part of this mission, if I’m being honest.Though I have to be because he’s fucking family in too many ways.I could protest and tell him to send her on her way, but I’ve seen how he looks at her.Somehow, his fake marriage doesn’t feel fake.
If he’s not already in love, then he’s falling—and falling hard.It’s written in the way he watches her when she’s not looking.The way his whole body reacts when her name is even whispered.
And maybe that’s what keeps me stuck here—half-tethered, half-waiting—wondering if it’s really that simple.
If it’s actually possible, just to decide the person standing in front of you is the one.The one you want to wake up next to.The one whose laugh stays lodged in your throat long after they’re gone.The one you’d fight for, bleed for, lie for.
Or maybe it’s not a decision.Perhaps it just happens without notice.There’s no logic, just hearts and souls connecting in ways you can’t see until you’re madly in love and consumed by everything.Is that even possible?
A knock pulls me from my thoughts.
I rush to the door, reaching for the door handle, my pulse tripping over itself because I know it’s her.Delilah Mora has arrived at the cabin so we can have some time together without worrying about anything—just us.
She’s standing there with that crooked smile, wearing snug jeans that hug her hips just enough to make breathing difficult, and a fitted long-sleeve turtleneck sweater layered under a soft jacket—unzipped like the cold doesn’t touch her.Her hair’s tousled from the wind.Cheeks flushed a perfect winter-rose pink, lips slightly parted like she’s been holding something back all day—and maybe longer than that.
I don’t mean to reach for her.
But I do.
I step forward, one hand curling around her waist, the other sliding up to the back of her neck as I pull her into me.Her breath catches just before her body does.Her hands land against my chest, fingertips twitching like they’re deciding whether to push or hold on.
“Hi,” she greets me.
“Hey,” I murmur back, forehead brushing hers.My eyes drop to her mouth, close enough to feel the warmth of her breath, to taste the possibility between us.
