Page 43 of The Last Call Home
Cassian’s smile creeps in slow, dangerous.“We brought you here for a conversation, and suddenly I’m on one knee?”
No one explains why Malerick’s been living in that shoebox apartment when he clearly has a cabin straight out of an architecture magazine.Which begs the question—what the hell is he hiding out here for?
“Stranger things have happened,” I mutter, brushing snow from my coat.“Just remember, you’re bachelor number two.My mother has high hopes.”
The fireplace crackles behind him.Warmth creeps into me slowly, hesitant—like even the fireplace knows I shouldn’t get too comfortable.The place smells like cedar and something else—something faintly spicy and male.Like Malerick, but with bourbon buried in it.Cozy, infuriatingly so.The kind of cozy that disarms people before it devours them.
Malerick is in the kitchen, by the stove, in a worn gray hoodie that stretches over broad shoulders like it was sewn directly onto skin.He’s barefoot, which shouldn’t be sexy but absolutely fucking is.He looks like he’s been here forever, like this is his kitchen, his domain.He stirs something in a pan with lazy precision and doesn’t even glance up when he speaks.
“If either one of you want something to drink, check by the bar.”
“We’re drinking already?”I ask, even though I could use one ...or two.Because this?This is a terrible idea dressed like temptation and smirking like sin.
“You think we’re being reckless, don’t you?”Cassian murmurs.
“I think you’re trying to start a fire with wet kindling.”
His mouth twitches.“Probably.But I hope you’re ready for the consequences.”
Malerick snorts without looking up at me.“And you’re the kindling?”
“I’m the fucking match,” I say before I can stop myself.
It’s too loud in the silence that follows.
Cassian’s eyes flash something molten.He steps to the bar, grabbing a bottle with a familiarity that reminds me he’s a bartender.He doesn’t ask what I want.Just starts pouring like he already knows how I take my pain.
I watch them.I can’t help it.
Cassian moves with clipped elegance, jaw tense, mouth unreadable—like a man who’d ruin you with good manners and then apologize for your orgasm like it’s part of the service.
And Malerick—God, Malerick.All rugged lines and silences that say too much.He doesn’t move like Cassian.He’s slower, looser.There’s something worn in him, something bruised.Something that makes me ache before I even know where.
My heart stumbles.
Because I’m here.In this place.With them.
And something’s about to happen.
Something I won’t be able to pretend away in the morning.
I told myself this was a game.
That I could flirt and firebomb my way out of anything.
But if either of them touches me tonight—really touches me—it might stop being one.
And I don’t know who I’ll be when it’s over.
My pulse skitters.I should say something.Make a joke.Make an excuse.But I just stand there, watching them move around this space where every inch of it dressed in civility but humming with something darker.
Cassian hands me a glass, brushing my fingers with his.“Sip slowly.Things get hotter from here.”
Malerick finally looks up.
And fuck me—I’m not ready.
“Well, aren’t you getting a little too ahead of yourself,” I smirk, trying to find my strength before I beg for something.I'm not sure what they have to offer, but I’m already needy, aching for a little release.That’s how much I want this—either one of them.
