Page 62 of Cruel When He Smiles

I clock Liam’s figure the moment we step down from the back deck. He’s seated with Ryan and Adrian, beer in hand, head tilted back in a low chuckle at something one of them says. I ignore him, refuse to acknowledge him, even when my pulse screams for it. I pretend the sudden awareness in my chest is just heat from the sun and not the magnetic weight of his silence.

If he’s going to pretend I’m invisible, then I’ll give him the same fucking courtesy.

Sage drifts closer to where Luca Devereaux is standing after Eli Matthews leaves his side. I spot the way Sage hesitates, then he walks straight over, and my heart twists.

“Back in a bit,” he says, tossing it over his shoulder without turning around.

I knew it was coming, but it still hits me wrong and leaves me standing there like a damn afterthought. I drag in a breaththrough my nose and head for the drinks table before I start picking fights just to feel something.

The cooler’s packed with soda cans, beer bottles, and a few random seltzers in pastel colors I wouldn’t touch even if I were dying. I pop open a Coke and sip it slowly, letting the carbonation burn down the tight line of my throat. My eyes scan the backyard while I lean against the edge of the table, trying not to let my gaze wander toward Liam again.

A few voices drift toward me—Roman Bishop in the pool with his backward cap and too-easy grin, Damien Moore making some smart comment about Adrian’s grilling technique. Eli Matthews waves when he sees me and says something about a soccer game next week. I nod and say thanks, despite not catching half of what he said.

It’s weird how no one’s being an asshole. No one’s mocking or poking. The air is easy, soft in a way that makes my spine stay stiff because I don’t trust it.

I hear the footsteps before I register the shadow, and when I glance up, Killian King is already walking toward me. My hand tightens around the can. The last time I saw him was that night outside Liam’s door. The way he looked at me then left an impression I haven’t been able to scrub out, but he’s not looking at me that way now.

He’s shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of black boardshorts slung low on his hips and a silver chain that glints against his collarbone in the sunlight. His body’s cut in a way that makes it obvious he’s a hockey player—broad chest and strong arms, not bulky but carved.

There are scars trailing down his left side, pale lines against tan skin, and I don’t know what kind of damage put them there, but they don’t look new. A cigarette’s burning between his fingers, the scent faint as he approaches.

“Hey,” he says, his voice not laced with the muted threat from last time.

I nod, still wary. “Hey.”

Killian pauses a few feet away, then exhales slowly. “I wanted to apologize for the other night.”

I blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“That night you came to see Liam,” he says, gaze flicking to mine with unsettling precision. “I was a dick, I know. You didn’t deserve that.”

I stare at him, unsure if this is some weird test or setup. “Okay…”

He drags on the cigarette and exhales toward the lawn. “The guys in this house… they’re not just teammates, they’re like family. Some more than others. I don’t trust easily, so when someone new shows up—especially near Liam or Roman—I get protective. Overprotective, maybe.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t speak and sip my soda while I wait.

Killian shrugs, finally looking back at me. “I’m not asking you to understand it. Just figured I’d say sorry since I misread the situation.”

“I didn’t think you cared enough to misread anything,” I mutter before I can stop myself.

He huffs something close to a laugh. “Fair. I don’t care about most people. But Liam…” His jaw flexes, and he pauses again. “He’s different.”

“You’re close,” I say, not exactly a question.

Killian tilts his head. “You could say that.”

There’s a stretch of silence between us, but it doesn’t crackle with the same tension as before. It’s… quiet. Tentative. Like we’re both testing the air to see if it’ll turn hostile again.

He turns his head to look at the guys on the lawn, and I notice a tattoo behind his ear I hadn’t noticed that night. But now, withthe sun hitting his jaw just right and his hair pushed back, I can see it clearly—XIII, inked small and neat, barely visible unless you’re paying attention.

“What’s the thirteen for?” I ask before I can stop myself.

Killian turns back to me and touches behind his ear, then drops his hand. “Personal reasons. Well, more of a reminder that some scars deserve to be permanent.”

I glance away, nodding once, my fingers curling tighter around the drink in my hand. “You always been close with Liam?” I ask after a beat, changing the subject.

Killian exhales smoke slowly and watches the swirl vanish into the breeze. “Yeah. Not by choice, at first. But now… I’d gut someone for him, if I had to.”