Page 123 of Cruel When He Smiles

“No.”

The way he says it leaves no room for argument. Not loud or aggressive, and that’s worse somehow. It’s the kind of quiet that demands obedience. The kind that wraps around your throat and squeezes.

“I—”

“No, baby,” his voice softens, but it doesn’t lose that edge. “You’re not going back to Greek Row, you’re coming home with me.”

My face burns at his use of “baby,” and I open my mouth, trying to find some part of me that still functions. Trying to pull up that bratty defiance he always draws out of me, but it doesn’t come. His tone always flips off the brat switch in me.

Still, I try.

“You don’t get to just—”

“I do.”

That’s the part that does it.

The finality.

The fucking certainty.

He says it like a truth, like a fucking law.

I stare at him, but he’s already reaching for the hospital bag someone must’ve packed and put beside my bed without me noticing. My name is printed on the side, and there’s a discharge form clipped to it. I didn’t sign it, but I know Liam must’ve handled it. He always handles shit when I’m not looking.

“You’re coming with me.” He doesn’t even glance at me when he speaks again, but the words are low and anchored insomething thick with heat. “Because only I get to look after my Pup.”

Fuck me sideways with a barbed baseball bat.

My hands twitch against the blanket. It’s not just the words, it’s how he says them. The possessiveness, the promise, the threat, and the care. All of it, wrapped in that deceptively soft voice that always slides under my skin before I realize I’ve let him in again.

I exhale slowly, watching him, testing him. “And what if I say no?”

Liam walks toward me and leans down so close that I feel the heat of him. He cocks his head to the side, eyes flicking down to my lips, smirks while biting his bottom lip, and says, “You won’t.”

This fucking guy.

I don’t argue because how in the absolute fuck am I going to argue with sex on legs? It’s easier than pretending I don’t want to go with him.

The drive is quiet.

Liam’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel, and his jaw is tight, locked so hard I can see the muscle jumping beneath his skin. He doesn’t speak or look at me. He doesn’t even have the radio on.

And it freaks me out, because Liam Callahan is never this quiet with me.

By the time he pulls into the Sin Bin’s driveway, my head is already spinning—and not from the concussion. The silence overshadows the pain, the lingering nausea, and the pressure behind my eyes. It’s not angry silence, it’s calculated and intentional. He’s choosing not to speak.

He gets out and slams the door behind him before walking over to my side, opening the door and raising a brow as if daring me to comment.

I don’t.

Inside the house, it’s loud. Voices everywhere. The thud of footsteps, someone laughing too hard in the kitchen, a game playing on the TV. But Liam doesn’t pause to talk to anyone. He grips my wrist, then leads me through the house, ignoring the way the others stare.

We get to his room, he shuts the door behind us, nodding to the mattress. “Lie down, Pup.”

I stare at him for a beat just to be difficult before giving in and collapsing onto the bed with a groan. My body’s still recovering, but the worst of the pain is gone. What’s left is tension coiled tight in my spine and crawling across my skin.

He doesn’t push or touch me beyond what’s necessary. He brings me water, sets it on the nightstand, tells me to drink, and makes sure I eat something later before I have to take my meds. Then he disappears and returns with an ice pack for my head.