Page 29 of The Last Call Home
And when the mission’s over, I’ll walk.Or maybe stay.Let them invite me in when the bed’s warm and the rules blur.
Wouldn’t that be something?
I just need to know how to play my hand, making sure no one gets hurt.
ChapterTen
Delilah
I don’t storm out.
That would give them too much power.
Instead, I walk out of the bar like I haven’t just told two grown-ass men I’d fuck them—together or apart—as long as they quit playing whatever secret-agent-hormonal-tango they’ve got going on.I walk like my legs aren’t jelly like I’m not half a breath away from turning around and begging one—or both—of them to finish what they started.
I walk like a liar.
Because my body?She’s traitorous.She’s still keyed up, vibrating from Cassian’s breath grazing my lips, and the way Malerick gripped my arm like he was two seconds from losing every ounce of control.Like he wanted to ruin me slowly and all at once.
This isn’t strength.It’s survival.
It’s walking before I melt down between them like some overbaked pastry filled with frustration and sex-deprived insanity.
The second I hit the street, the cold cracks against me.A slap of wind that slices through my clothes and latches onto my skin.I forgot my coat.Of course I did.Because my brain is MIA, probably curled up somewhere between Cassian’s smirk and Mal’s glare.
But the heat?Still there.
Still crawling under my skin like an unfinished sentence, a question with no punctuation.My entire body is a buzzing contradiction—cold on the outside, feverish beneath.I cross the street like I’m not about to combust.Arms wrapped tight around myself like I can cage the feelings I’m not ready to name.
And naturally—because apparently, my life is now a tragicomedy—my mother appears like a matchmaking hallucination.She’s the last person I need right now.If she gets a whiff of what’s happening with Mal and Cassian ...she’ll either be scandalized or start a game show to see who I can pick.
“Lilah, mi pequeña,” Mom sings out, just as I nearly plow into her like a walking emotional landslide.
She smells like cinnamon and nosy intentions.The paper bag in her hand is from the bakery—probably filled with something she’s going to give away to someone in exchange for information.She’s better than every intelligence agency combined.Maybe I should have her go and drag the truth out of those men, but that’d be telling her what’s happening and she’d freak out.
Mom eyes me like she already knows everything and is just waiting for me to say the wrong thing so she can be dramatically correct.
“You look flushed,” she says, tilting her head like I’m a lab rat she’s monitoring for symptoms.“And not in a glowing way.Are you sick?Are you hormonal?Are you pregnant?”She gasps.“No.It’s the coat.Dios mío, mijita, how can you be out without a jacket?Te me vas a enfermar.”
A few minutes without a coat and she swears I’m going to get sick.It’s like she loaded a shotgun with maternal panic and fired blindly.
“I’m fine,” I try my best not to snap.Too quickly.Way too quickly.
Her brows shoot up.“Mhm.Were you at Cassian’s bar?”
I blink.“Yes.”There’s no point lying.She’ll smell it on me—like sin and cinnamon rolls.
Her smile morphs into something triumphant.“So it’s happening.We’ve chosen the bartender.”
“We haven’t chosen anyone,” I hiss, voice pitched low like we’re in a spy thriller and the walls have ears.
Mom’s expression goes full smug.“Don’t play with me.Your lips are swollen.Your pupils are dilated.And you’re walking like your thighs remember more than your brain’s willing to admit.”
I groan.“Mom, I swear to God?—”
“I’m just saying,” she waves her free hand like she’s clearing my objections.“Malerick was always the top contender.But Cassian’s a surprise dark horse.He’s polite.He listens.He wants kids.”
I rear back.“What?”
