Page 108 of Cruel When He Smiles

Nate’seyesshutagain,lashes twitching against the bruised swell of his cheek. His breathing is steady now, chest rising and falling with a rhythm that anchors me to this sterile room. The lights are low, but the monitors are loud; mechanical reassurance that he’s alive, he’s breathing, and his heart is beating.

But the way he lies there, too still, too quiet…it’s wrong. My Pup is never this silent. Never this fucking small.

I sit forward, my elbows on my knees, the stiff vinyl of the chair groaning beneath my weight. I’ve been here too long and haven’t moved in what feels like hours. My neck aches, my jaw is locked from grinding it, and my fists are cramping from how long I’ve kept them clenched.

Because when he went down, everything inside me stopped.

It wasn’t just a bad tackle, or a hard hit. It was malicious, targeted, and deliberate.

The second that fucker, Josh Miller, lowered his shoulder and charged, I knew what was coming. I was on the sidelines, too far to reach him in time, and all I could do was watch. Nate had just cut left, a clean breakaway, and his back was exposed and vulnerable. The hit landed with a sickening thud, his body folding around the impact, legs flying out as he was thrown sideways into the bench.

His head struck the edge of the steel bench.

The rest is a blur—my hands on him, blood already seeping from a gash above his ear, another forming at his hairline, the side of his temple swelling fast. He didn’t wake when I called his name. His lips were slightly parted, and he was breathing, but his eyes didn’t open. Not when I whispered. Not even when I threatened to lose my fucking mind.

I don’t remember the ambulance. I don’t remember who tried to stop me. All I know is that when someone reached for him, my fist collided with a jaw, and suddenly there was blood on my knuckles that didn’t belong to Nate.

And now I’m here, watching his chest move, and obsessively tracking each rise and fall like it’ll stop if I take my eyes off him.

I press a fist to my mouth, breathe into it, then let it fall to my lap. My fingers are trembling and there’s dried blood under my nails, probably his, maybe not. My shirt’s still damp with sweat; it’s the same one I wore on the field. I haven’t changed. Haven’t showered. Haven’t eaten.

None of it matters because he didn’t move.

And for one horrible, breathless moment, I thought I was watching someone die.

I lean back in the chair and stare at the ceiling, trying to breathe evenly.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to matter this much.

Nate is a brat. A smartass. A walking button I can’t stop pressing. He flirts to provoke, argues to distract, and fights like his pride depends on it. I wasn’t supposed to give a damn past the game. Past the control. Past the high of knowing I could make him bend.

But then he looked at me—really looked—and suddenly it wasn’t about dominance anymore.

And today, someone tried to take what was mine.

My fingers curl into fists again, knuckles pale, jaw tight enough that my teeth ache. I can’t explain this to anyone. I don’t even know if I can explain it to myself. This fear, this unholy surge of rage and helplessness—they don’t belong to me.

I wasn’t built for this. I don’t do emotional fallout, and I don’t spiral over people. I keep a leash on everything.

But this isn’t spiraling.

This is fucking grief.

Premature and unearned, because he’s still here, he’s still breathing—but it felt close. Too close. One inch the wrong way, and his skull would’ve cracked wide open. One second slower, and his neck might’ve snapped.

He could’ve died right there in front of me, and I would’ve had to live with that.

“Fuck,” I whisper under my breath, dragging a hand through my hair, fingers curling against my scalp until it stings.

His face is half in shadow, the cut above his brow taped closed, the left side of his head bandaged. A butterfly suture holds the skin near his temple shut, the area around it already an ugly purple bruise that stretches down into his cheekbone. The swelling has his eye almost shut on that side.

He took a hit no one should’ve walked away from.

But he’s Nate, and he always fucking stays on his feet.

Until today.

Until now.