Page 46 of Cruel When He Smiles

Killian’s lounging in the leather chair opposite my bed, one leg crossed over the other, the Zippo I gave him years ago snapping open and shut in his palm.

Click. Snap. Click. Snap. The rhythm isn’t random. Nothing about Killian ever is.

His blond hair is damp from his own shower, curling slightly where it brushes the side of his face. The buzzed sides of his skull make the slicked-back top look almost too clean. He’s in a white tee and black joggers, veins prominent in his forearms.

Six-three, same as me; same build, same brutal pedigree, but we’re mirrored in reverse. I’m dusk to his daylight. Brown to his gold. Hazel to his ice. If I’m the knife, Killian King is the open flame it was forged in.

“And you’re in my room,” I say, dragging the towel off my hair, then moving past him without another glance. “Breaking and entering now, Kill?”

“I was here before you,” he replies without missing a beat. “You walked in like you were chasing ghosts. Thought I’d let you settle into your existential crisis before I said hello.”

He says it with that calm, razor-thin voice. The one that always carries something sharp underneath, even when he’s smiling. Especially when he’s smiling.

I exhale slowly and ignore the bait, tossing the towel toward the hook behind the bathroom door. “There’s no existential crisis.”

Killian hums like he doesn’t believe me. He flips the lighter again, the tempo of a weapon being cocked.

“You could’ve knocked,” I mutter, walking toward my desk and leaning back against it, crossing my arms.

He shrugs. “I don’t knock on doors that were never closed to me.”

I narrow my eyes. “Maybe they’re closed now.”

“No, they’re not,” he says smoothly. “You only slam them when you want me to kick them in.”

The Zippo clicks again, once, then stays shut this time. His blue eyes lift to mine, but there’s no smile on his face now. No smirk, just that quiet, relentless kind of focus he saves for when he’s digging.

“You here to psychoanalyze me?” I ask. “You want a notebook? A couch?”

“You wouldn’t sit still for either,” he murmurs. “Besides, we both know you don’t talk unless you want to hurt someone. So, who are you trying not to hurt right now, little brother?”

The nickname scrapes raw under my ribs, even if I never show it. He says it with a smirk, always does. “You were born two months before me,” I say flatly. “It’s not a title.”

He smirks and tilts his head to the side, displaying the XIII tattooed just behind his ear. “It is when you wear it like you’re trying to outrun it.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“And you’re deflecting,” he says, and I stare at him for a long second, waiting him out. “You forget that you’ve got a tell.”

I remain standing, arms folded loosely, letting him look. Letting him pry. “I don’t,” I lie calmly.

“You do. And I only see it when you’ve had your teeth sunk into something you don’t want to let go of.” He says, the lighter now spinning across his knuckles with a rhythm too precise to be careless. “You’ve been twitching since preseason. Coming home like there’s a dog gnawing at your spine and you’re not sure whether you want to kick it or feed it. So, I’ll ask again: who has their claws in you?”

I hold his gaze, and my heart stutters. Killian knows he’s the only person I won’t outright lie to. I could dodge or sidestep. I could give him enough sarcasm to drown us both in it, but he knows I can’t… Not after everything he’s done for me.

My mother, world-renowned in psychology, had turned my mind into her favorite canvas, while the man who raised me left bruises as proof of ownership.

Lisa Callahan didn’t raise a son—she constructed one. Every emotion measured, every response analyzed. I wasn’t a boy; I was a theory in motion. Elias Callahan made sure any slip outside the model left bruises.

And when I finally understood that I wasn’t supposed to survive it, Killian weaponized me. He taught me cruelty, manipulation, and how to hide in plain sight—how to hurt first and hit hardest. My loyalty to Killian isn’t sentimental; it’s born from survival. He’s the only person on this earth I’d ever willingly submit to because he took my broken edges and sharpened them into blades.

“Nate Carter,” I say finally, giving in. “It’s Nate Carter.”

Killian hums, as if he’s rolling the name across his tongue, testing the weight of it. “The Sigma Rho Alpha pup?”

My jaw clenches at his use of my nickname for Nate, and he clocks the flicker of something territorial in my expression immediately. “You call him that again and we’ll have a problem.”

He raises a brow. “So, it’s like that?” he asks, interest now sharpened into concern. He never gets concerned unless he smells rot that he didn’t cause.