Page 82 of Cruel When He Smiles

I push. He pulls. I poke at the fire just to see if it burns.

Liam doesn’t stay in the shadows tonight; he doesn’t watch from a distance. He comes to me. I feel him before I see him, his presence sending something cold slicing through my good mood.

“You look like you’re having fun.”

I turn slowly, and there he is. Tall, composed, leaning against the wall like he wasn’t just waiting for the right moment to strike. His hazel eyes flick over me, his mouth curved in something that isn’t quite a smirk or a sneer, but is something in between.

I tilt my head, meet his gaze, and offer him a slow blink. “Was,” I say, because I’m not interested in pretending. He ruins shit just by breathing in the same space as me.

But then I notice the rest of him. Not for the first time, and definitely not for the last. His shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up enough to show the tension in his forearms. His pants are dark and fitted with a kind of tailoring that whispers expensive. His hair’s slightly tousled, not messy, just enough to look like someone touched it. Maybe he did it himself, maybe not. I don’t let myself linger on that, but it’s hard not to.

Because even now—after everything, after the mindfuck he’s put me through—my gaze drags over him like it always fucking does. My body doesn’t care that he’s a walking red flag. My pulse doesn’t give a damn about my good intentions; it just spikes when he’s nearby. When I breathe him in. When he gives me that look that says he knows things about me I haven’t admitted even to myself.

And goddamn it, he’s beautiful. He stands out without trying, every inch of him dressed in that coiled, still energy that saysdon’t touch unless you want to bleed.

That, somehow, is the hottest fucking part.

“I like the new energy,” he says softly, almost like a confession. “It suits you.”

There’s something off about his tone, something almost too controlled, almost as if he’s keeping himself in check, and for some reason, that makes my stomach tighten.

I take a slow sip of my drink, not breaking eye contact. “You want something, Callahan? Or are you just here to stand there and look pretty?”

His jaw ticks, but the smirk stays. “You tell me, Carter. You’re the one who wanted my attention, remember?”

I huff a laugh, shaking my head. “You keep telling yourself that,” I say, then I turn to leave, but I don’t get far.

His fingers wrap around my wrist, pulling me back toward him, but something about it feels different this time. I glance up, meeting his gaze. “Let go of me.”

He doesn’t; instead, his fingers tighten, his body angles closer, and his hazel eyes darken. “You think you’re so fucking smart, don’t you?”

I lift a brow. Fucking hell, I got him to curse outside of a sexual setting. “I think I touched a nerve since you're not acting like that sociopathic asshole I’ve come to know.”

His grip tightens enough to hurt, and fuck me, I see the cracks. The place where the polished Liam Callahan ends and the predator begins.

I lean in a little, lowering my voice. “Not used to someone playing your game better than you?”

His expression changes, the smirk falls, and for a split second—just a split second—I see that predator behind the mask.

Before I can process it, I’m being pushed back and shoved into the nearest empty hallway. My back hits the wall, his body crowds into mine, pinning me there, his breath hot against my face.

I look at him and suck in a breath because he isn’t smiling. He isn’t composed or calm, and he looks fucking furious.

“You keep pushing me,” he whispers, his voice shredded by restraint. “You keep baiting me like you want me to lose it.”

I stare up at him, my own breath unsteady now, my body tense, something shifting between us in a way I wasn’t prepared for.

This isn’t the version of Liam I know, not the version everyone else sees. He’s unraveling, and, fuck, it’s beautiful. I love watching him come apart and knowing I caused it. I crave the cracks in his armor, the places where he bleeds instead of bluffs.

He’s spent weeks breaking me down—pushing, pulling, dragging me to the edge just to watch me fall. But now he’s theone teetering. He’s the one barely keeping his footing, and I want to see how far I can push him before he snaps.

I smirk, tilting my head, letting my breath ghost over his jaw as I drop my voice, teasing, taunting, pushing. “What’s wrong, Lover?”

His whole body locks up.

Oh.

Oh, that got to him.