Page 32 of Cruel When He Smiles

He wants permission, so I make him my toy.

“Shut the door, will you?”

His breath catches, but he moves before the echo of the words finishes leaving the air. Not a moment of hesitation. That’s the thing about boys like him—they broadcast boldness but come undone the second you notice them. They’re all noise until someone turns the volume off and gives them a script to follow.

He doesn’t ask what I want, he just drops to his knees right there, between the rows of desks. His palms rest on my thighs like he’s praying. His eyes are wide and expectant, already glazed over with anticipation and waiting to be used. There’s no fight in him. No challenge. Just breathless obedience waiting to be shaped into something useful.

I should enjoy it… I used to.

But I feel nothing. Not lust, not power. Not even the pleasure of being in control. Just a hollow hum behind my ribs, buzzing with the bitter awareness that he’s perfect.

Perfectly willing. Perfectly soft. Perfectly eager to be used without ever daring to use me back.

What a perfect fucking failure.

I don’t want a body; I want a fight. I want someone who’ll bite down hard enough to leave proof. Who’ll use my name like a slur and won’t give me everything just because I ask. This boy would crawl into my lap and purr if I gave him a pat on the head.

Nate wouldn’t do any of this.

I see my Pup’s furious little glare and the flush in his cheeks when he saysfuck you, Callahan.I see his jaw clenched while his body shudders against my hand. I see fire. Defiance. A mouth that fights me even when it’s begging to be filled.

I breathe out a sigh and step back. “Get up.”

He blinks, clearly confused, but with knees still planted on the linoleum. “Did I… do something wrong?”

“No,” I say, grabbing my bag and slinging it over my shoulder. “You’re perfect.”

He just lowers his eyes, shame already blooming under his skin like bruises. I don’t explain why perfect doesn’t mean a fucking thing to me. How could I?

Sorry, you didn’t scratch the itch because the itch has a name and teeth, and you’re not him.

He stays kneeling as I walk out, and even then, I know he’ll remember it. Not as a rejection, but as a lesson.

Not everyone wantsprettywhen they could havedangerous.

By the time I pull into the driveway at home, the sky’s gone from pale gold to deep blue. Most of the lights are on, and I can already hear someone blasting a playlist that’s more bass than melody.

My key clicks in the front door, and I cut through the entryway without saying a word to whoever’s yelling in the kitchen. I don’t stop moving until I’m in my room. I don’t turn on the light.

I toss my bag to the floor and strip out of my clothes, peeling the shirt from my body carefully. I ignore the pull of the cut and open the bottom drawer, grabbing the first workout shirt I can find. It’s a plain gray one. Fitted but loose enough to hide my scars and the wrap.

I throw on a pair of shorts and head down to the basement gym. We have a treadmill and weight setup for when we’re not in the mood to use the gym on campus. The sound of weights slamming into padded flooring beats through the room in time with grunts and staccato breathing.

Roman is at the bench press, stacked up heavy, pushing reps without a spotter. Killian stands beside him, watching, but not bothering to help. He’s got a protein bar in one hand and his shirt off, sweat streaked down his chest in lazy rivulets. He sayssomething under his breath that makes Roman snort between sets, then he turns his head and stares at me.

I freeze for a second, but that’s all it takes. His eyes linger a little too long, and my entire body breaks out in a cold sweat that has nothing to do with the temperature.

He’s not supposed to look at me like that. Not here. Not in front of Roman with that level of awareness. I tear my eyes away and head straight for the treadmill, shoulders tight and throat dry.

The machine whirs to life with the slap of rubber on steel. I start slow, let the rhythm settle under my feet before I bump the speed higher. My legs burn within the first minute. The stitches tug sharply at my side, the fresh bandage already damp with blood.

I don’t care. I push harder, jaw clenched, breathing through my nose because I can’t afford to pant. Can’t afford to sound unhinged. Can’t afford to show that anything rattled me.

I keep my pace even, let the pain at my side ground me. It pulses in sync with my steps, a reminder that I’m still here, even if everything else in me feels like it’s drifting.

The images from earlier flood into my mind despite the noise—the boy in the classroom, the hollow obedience, how his knees hit the floor without resistance.

It didn’t work.