Page 122 of Cruel When He Smiles

There it is.

I recognize it because I’ve been trained to look for it. Her entire expression is a performance, right down to the hand placement and the head tilt. It’s the same expression I use when I’m baiting someone into trusting me. The kind of smile that makes people feel seen without ever letting them see you back.

I know the type. Hell, I was raised by it. Women like her smile in public and gut you in private. They spin kindness into obligation, they weaponize concern, and they train their children to say “I’m fine” through broken teeth.

And Nate’s been surviving her his whole damn life. No wonder he clings to Sage like he’s the last solid thing in the world. No wonder he flinches when someone gets too close with soft words.

And suddenly, I know.

This isn’t just push and pull. This is a boy who was conditioned to submit to the wrong person, and now he doesn’t know what to do when someone offers control without cruelty. That’s whatgets him. That’s what scares him—because I don’t yell, I don’t strike, and I don’t make demands.

I watch, I speak softly, and I wait for the parts of him to break willingly. He thinks I want him on his knees because I like power. He doesn’t understand that I want him on his knees because I want truth. The kind of truth he doesn’t even know how to give yet. The kind that’s been locked behind years of lies dressed up as love.

Now, I know why he freezes up when she calls. I know why he keeps this part of himself locked so fucking deep inside that even I haven’t been able to get to it.

And, for the first time, I hate being right.

Nate

I’mexhaustedinaway I can’t explain.

It’s not just the throbbing behind my left eye or the nausea that clings to me when I move too quickly. It’s not even the sore ribs or the headache that pulses through my skull every time someone breathes too loudly or flicks on a light.

It’s deeper than that. It’s the kind of tired that has nothing to do with the body and everything to do with how my mind won’t fucking shut off. The way I’ve had to replay that moment—cleats slamming into turf, a body colliding with mine, my head hitting the bench hard enough to turn everything black.

After three days, painkillers can only do so much.

The nurses are worse than the meds, constantly coming in and out of the room, checking monitors, asking me the same four questions about where I am and what day it is, like I’m one wrong answer away from being lobotomized.

And then there’s Sage—hovering, pacing, talking too much and too fast, looking at me like he thinks I’m about to flatline justto spite him. The guilt in his eyes makes me feel worse than the injury ever could.

I love him, I do. But I’ve never wanted to punch my best friend more than I did somewhere between his third emotional check-in and his eighth insistence that I wasn’t “coping well.”

So when the door creaks open again, I groan, dragging the blanket over my face like I can will the world away with fabric.

“Sage, I swear to fucking God, if you ask me if I’m okay one more time—”

“Not Sage.”

That voice pulls the air from my lungs before my brain fully registers who it belongs to. I push the blanket down slowly, squinting against the fluorescent lights. Liam stands in the doorway, and fuck, he looks… different.

No fake smirk or cocky strut, but his expression is unreadable in a way I’ve never seen before. That usual lazy arrogance remains painted on his face, but there’s a crack in it right now. I can see it in the tension around his mouth and the way his hands twitch once at his sides.

My pulse kicks up despite myself. “You’re back,” I say, keeping my tone casual even though my heart’s already tripping over itself.

“Obviously.” His voice is calm. Too calm.

I shift a little, ignoring the sharp throb behind my temple as I drag myself higher on the pillows. “Did you miss me, Lover?”

His eyes darken, but he doesn’t take the bait. He doesn’t even smirk or say something cruel to put me in my place. Instead, he watches me with this quiet, calculated intensity that makes my skin prickle.

“Get dressed, Pup. We’re leaving.”

That… is not what I expected. I blink, caught off guard. “What?”

He doesn’t repeat himself and steps further into the room, his hands sliding into his pockets as if dragging a concussed person out of a hospital bed in the middle of the night is completely within reason. “You’re being discharged and you’re coming home with me.”

My throat tightens. “Liam, it’s late. And my frat—”