Page 97 of The Last Call Home
His jaw rests against the crown of her head, eyes half-closed, but I know he hasn’t slept.He’s watching her breath, matching it like he’s trying to memorize the rhythm so he can keep her safe on his own.There’s a tightness in his posture, even in rest—a man ready to go to war from a dead sleep if someone so much as breathes wrong in her direction.
If she fell apart again, he’d be the first to catch her.Not just because he wants to.Because he needs to.
And she lets him.
“Hey,” he greets me.“You look like shit.Any news?”
I clear my throat.“Rosalinda’s okay,” I say, voice rough.“I just drove by to check on her.My deputy’s parked outside, and they’re installing an alarm system tomorrow morning.Cameras, too.”
Delilah doesn’t move at first, but her eyes open slowly.She blinks like it takes effort to come back to the surface.
“They burned my fucking bakery.”Her voice is cracking.“It’s all gone.Why the hell would they do that to me?”
I want to crawl into bed and wrap myself around her too.Not because I deserve to.Because I don’t think I can sleep until I feel her breathing next to me.
But I can’t move like that yet.Not until the gun’s locked away.Not until I stop seeing flames behind my eyes.I reach the nightstand, open the drawer, and punch in the code to the safe.The soft beep breaks the quiet like a breath being held too long.
I draw the gun from the holster at my hip, check it with instinctive ease, then slide it into the safe and lock it tight.Only after the weapon is secured do I let myself exhale.
I roll my shoulders, rub the back of my neck, then start unfastening the buttons of my uniform shirt.The fabric’s stiff with dried sweat and soot, clinging in places, reminding me of everything we just walked through.
I shrug it off, let it fall across the chair in the corner.The air inside the cabin is warm, the woodstove casting a low amber glow across the floorboards—but my skin still feels chilled beneath it all, like what’s happening outside has already soaked into my bones.
“I fucked up,” I admit, the words tasting bitter.“I shouldn’t have kissed you in broad daylight.People saw.Rumors spread.”
Delilah shifts upright in the bed.She’s not crying anymore—she looks carved out, hollowed, but inside that stillness is something sharper.She’s not falling apart.She’s bracing to fight.
And God help whoever lit the match because Cass and I are planning on destroying them.
Cassian cuts in before I can spiral any further.“It couldn’t have been that.The Syndicate is fast, but not that fast.They would’ve needed more time.Confirmation.A reason.This was planned.”
I nod, jaw clenched.“What if the heir doesn’t like her?”
Delilah’s brow pulls tight.“Whose heir?”
“Desmond Draven’s,” I say, pulling a clean shirt over my head.“The head of the Syndicate.We believe she’s here—either working with him, or he’s trying to find her.We haven’t confirmed which yet.”
Delilah looks wild, radiant in her rage.Not broken.Just cracked open enough to let fire through.
“So, we’ve got the mafioso’s daughter running around our town,” she says, eyes narrowing.“You find her ...”Her lips curl.“I shoot her.”
Cassian snorts softly.“You’ll have to get in line.”
But there’s something in her voice that holds me tighter than any strategy or briefing ever could.She’s not afraid.She’s fucking furious.And maybe that’s exactly what we need right now—because fear paralyzes, but rage?Rage gets shit done.
And Delilah Mora?
She’s not just someone I kissed.
She’s not just the girl I failed to protect.
She’s the reason I’m going to end this, no matter what it costs.
“So ...we’re sleeping together?”I ask, and yeah, maybe it’s not the most eloquent line I’ve ever delivered, but I need to hear her say it.
Delilah lifts a brow, gaze steady on mine.“Mom knows I’m here?”
Cassian laughs behind her.His hand is still resting on her hip, fingers curled possessively over the hem of my shirt she’s wearing like it's her armor.“She’s more afraid of her mother than she is of whoever destroyed her coffee shop.”
