Page 113 of The Last Call Home
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.
ChapterFifty-Three
Cassian
