Page 155 of Cruel When He Smiles

It’s toxic and all-consuming. It’s the kind of love that destroys.

And I don’t give a single fuck.

“You’re not leaving me either, Callahan,” I counter, my voice hoarse, raw from everything we just did, from everything we just became. “Don’t think I’ll fucking let you, either.”

Liam’s fingers trail down my sides, possessive even in the afterglow. His lips brush against my jaw, his breath warm against my skin as he chuckles, pleased. “My soul already belongs to you, Pup. The only way I’m leaving is if I fucking die.”

A shiver shoots through me. I believe him. Every single word.

Liam doesn’t do half-measures. He doesn’t do things lightly. When he decides something is his, he means it. And I don’t have to ask to know—he’s already decided I’m his in a way no one else ever will be.

And fuck, I want it.

I need it.

I press my lips against his, tasting him, letting myself sink into him, into this, into the mess we’ve made together. And I know, deep down, this isn’t something I’ll ever be able to walk away from.

Liam Callahan is in my blood now.

And I’ll burn before I let him go.

Liam

Thewaterishotenough to sting when it first hits my back, and I stand there for a second, letting it run over my shoulders, watching the steam roll up into the air and fade before it can settle.

The spray hisses against the tile, catching on the smears of dried blood still marking both of us. It swirls in thin red ribbons at our feet, fading to pink as it chases toward the drain.

The sight should be jarring, but it isn’t—not after tonight. Not after the way Nate’s voice cut through every defense I’ve ever built or the way he looked at me when he said my pain belonged to him.

He’s quiet. Usually, that’s my role, letting silence work for me while he fills it with sharp words or that bratty tilt to his mouth. But now it’s him, standing under the spray with his head tipped back, water cutting down his face and dripping off his jaw.

His arms are loose at his sides, shoulders slack, and I can see the pulse in his throat slowing from the pace it had been pounding earlier. He’s calm, and for once, so am I.

No spiraling. No intrusive voice in my head dragging me down into the familiar pit of self-destruction. Just the sound of water, the faint echo of our breathing, and the heat seeping into my bones. I realize, slowly, that it’s because he’s here.

It’s the first time in longer than I can remember that I’ve come down from something like that and not been trapped in my own head. I’m standing in it instead, anchored in the present by the way his body moves in the spray, by the subtle turn of his head when he senses I’m looking at him.

And fuck me, he’s beautiful.

Green eyes so pale they almost look unreal when they’re open, framed by lashes most girls would kill for. Skin tanned from hours on the pitch, the kind of natural warmth that makes him look like summer even in the dead of winter. There’s a faint constellation of freckles on his shoulders, and lower, the black ink of the panther on his side catches my attention again.

Nate’s face is the one thing I can’t get out of my head, even when I try. That muted blend of his mother’s Korean features and his father’s Irish, sharper cheekbones, balanced by the softness of his biteable lips.

The slight tilt to his eyes that makes his stare even more lethal when he’s pushing back at me, the way his lips part just enough when he’s trying not to say something. I’ve cataloged every detail without meaning to, and standing here now, watching him breathe in the steam and the quiet, I realize why.

I’m in love with him.

It hits me—in this small space where the sound of the water is the only thing breaking the silence—that I’ve been circling this for months. That every move I’ve made, every calculated push and pull, every deliberate cruelty, has been leading me here. Andnow I’m standing here in front of him, washing the last traces of blood from his skin, and I know it without hesitation.

It’s not the kind of love I’ve heard about in bullshit stories or seen in clean, bright-eyed couples walking across campus. It’s not easy or gentle. It’s messy and jagged and dangerous, the kind of love that brands itself into bone and won’t ever come out clean.

It’s mine, and it’s his, and I know if I told him right now, he’d understand exactly what I meant—because he’s the same kind of wrong I am.

I don’t even realize I’ve moved until I’m in front of him, close enough that the spray is hitting both of us now. His gaze flicks up to mine, questioning but not guarded, and I reach for the bottle of shampoo without breaking eye contact. My hands are steady as I pop the cap and squeeze a line of it into my palm.

“Turn around,” I say quietly.

He arches a brow like he’s about to argue, then thinks better of it and turns, tilting his head slightly forward. The dark strands of his hair are heavy with water, sticking to the back of his neck and curling at the ends. I work the shampoo into my hands and then into his hair, fingers combing through from scalp to ends. It’s thicker than it looks when it’s dry, the kind that catches under my fingers and forces me to slow down.