Page 175 of Cruel When He Smiles

One deep inhale. Then another.

Within seconds, he’s asleep.

Just like that. As if every demon he just faced drained the last of what he had left, and I’m now the only thing keeping him from slipping into the dark again. I wrap my arm around him, pulling him closer, hand resting at the base of his spine.

I listen to the sound of his breathing settle into a rhythm that’s all his. No nightmares. No thrashing. No whispers of her name chasing him down.

Just silence.

Liam

Iwaketoweighton my chest and heat on my skin, the kind that only comes from another body pressed far too close. I peel my eyes open slowly, already knowing who I’m going to see, but still not prepared for how he’s looking at me.

He’s propped on his elbow, head tilted slightly, that ridiculous black shirt of mine slipping off one shoulder like he staged it that way. His hair’s still damp in spots from the shower, curling a little near the ends. And his eyes—fuck, his eyes.

They’re light. Not dulled like yesterday, not shattered like the hours before that. Just bright, almost unnatural—like someone took a highlighter to his irises.

I blink, and he grins.

“What?” I ask, voice still gravelly from sleep, though I don’t bother pretending I’m annoyed.

His grin widens, and he doesn’t move. “You snore.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You do. And you drool a little. You also said my name in your sleep, which was flattering. Creepy. But flattering.”

I move my arm, slide it behind my head, and lift an eyebrow. “You stared at me long enough to catalog all that? And yet you call me creepy.”

He hums, then shrugs. “You’re kind of pretty when you’re unconscious.”

I drag a hand down my face, shaking my head once, but I can’t fight the smirk that tugs at the corner of my mouth. I watch him, letting the silence stretch until I feel him squirm under it. His throat bobs when he swallows, and I catch the moment where he retreats inward.

“Seriously,” he grumbles, and when I don’t respond, he flicks my chest with a finger, his expression sharpening. “What?”

I raise a brow. “What do you mean, ‘what’?”

The pout forms slowly, tugging at his bottom lip like he doesn’t know it’s happening. He looks like someone who’s trying to be mad but doesn’t quite have the stamina for it anymore. It’s honestly kind of adorable. And that’s the problem.

My Pup killed his mother like it meant nothing last night, and is now wrapped in my sheets, mouthing off like he didn’t just hand me his soul while standing in a blood-slicked room.

It’s endearing in the worst way. Dangerous in all the right ones.

“You’re doing that thing again.” He sighs, and it’s exasperated, but the way his fingers move toward my wrist betrays the truth. He wants to touch me. Needs it, even if he won’t say so. “The whole gentle, concerned thing. I hate it.”

“You hate it?” I echo, my voice threading into the tone I know he melts for—silken, heavy with authority.

He hesitates, and I watch in real time as his body betrays him. His pupils dilate and his breath stutters. Then his lashes lowerenough for me to know he heard the change, registered it, and felt the shift in control.

The brat in him bristles, but the submissive in him folds.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he mumbles, brushing his thumb over a spot on my bicep where he bit me the other night. “I just don’t want you acting like I’m broken.”

I push up slowly until I’m hovering over him, arms braced on either side of his head. His expression changes immediately—eyelids half-lowering, lips parting, pulse flickering beneath the skin of his throat.

“You’re cute when you’re trying to act like nothing’s changed,” I murmur, dipping my head low until my breath grazes his cheek. “But you don’t get to pretend with me, baby.”

He tenses right before he melts—a slow, subtle curve of his spine into the mattress, eyes softening like liquid behind glass. I let my voice drop further, past coaxing and into command.