Page 14 of Cruel When He Smiles (Sinners of Blackthorne U #3)

Liam

The guy’s name doesn’t matter.

He’s got dark hair, a lean frame, and the kind of clingy, anxious energy that practically screams validate me .

He talks too much, punctuates every sentence with a nervous laugh that catches in his throat, and glances at my mouth like he’s imagining what it would feel like if I told him to open wide and not speak again.

I don’t mind.

I make it easier.

A slight tilt of my head. A low chuckle timed to sync with his anxiety. A casual compliment about the way his handwriting curves—vulnerable boys eat that shit up. People want to be noticed. I’ve built my entire academic career on knowing how to make them feel seen.

We’re the last ones left in the seminar room.

Everyone else packed up and left twenty minutes ago, but we’re still here under the flimsy pretense of comparing notes.

He’s leaning closer now, pen forgotten, posture tense, and hands curled against the edge of the desk like he’s holding himself back from begging.

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 says fuck 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 wants pretty when they could have dangerous.

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 says something 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.

None of it fucking works.

The more I try to bury Nate under other people, the deeper he digs under my ribs.

He’s not supposed to live there. He’s not supposed to matter.

He shouldn’t be the thing I think about when I’m fucking someone else.

He shouldn’t be the reason I can’t finish.

He shouldn’t be the echo in my ears when I run until I taste blood.

And yet here I am, running faster, harder, until my chest starts to burn and my vision blurs and every muscle in my body screams at me to stop. My eyes sting with sweat, and I focus on the numbers ticking up. Time. Distance. Calories. None of it matters, but I pretend it does.

I press the stop button and step off too fast, and my vision tilts. I catch myself against the bar and breathe through it, one hand clutched to my side, the other dragging through sweat-dampened hair.

I leave before anyone can ask questions.

Back upstairs, I head straight to the shower, but not my en suite. The one in the spare room where no one ever goes; the one with no mirror. I strip down, peel the bandage away, and look at the wound in the half-light. It’s red, angry, and still seeping at the edges.

I stare at it for a long time, then step under the spray and let the hot water burn the memory of everything I touched and everything I didn’t cut out of my skin.

… I’m getting worse.

An hour later, I come down the stairs slowly, one hand gripping the banister, my legs still a little sore from the treadmill earlier.

The house smells like garlic, oil, and something warm I can’t place—maybe chili flakes.

Doesn’t matter. It’s good; the kind of scent that settles in your clothes and lingers in your hair.

Killian must be cooking again, which means someone’s either bribed him or we’re moments away from a passive-aggressive group therapy session disguised as a family dinner.

I wipe the last of the shower steam from my neck with my sleeve and take the last step down, drawn more by the noise than the smell. Voices overlap—some laughing, some sharp, one particularly agitated and spiked through with irritation that immediately puts me on edge.

The kitchen’s alive with movement when I walk in, and from the way everyone’s spaced out around the massive kitchen island, I can already tell something’s brewing.

Killian’s at the stove, shirtless, and stirring a pan like he’s not enjoying the tension thickening the air behind him.

There’s a half-dressed Caesar salad on the counter and two different sauces in progress.

One red, one cream. He’s making options, which is code for: he’s making peace before someone throws hands.

Roman’s leaning against the fridge with a bottle of sparkling water, face unreadable except for the tick in his jaw that says he’s choosing silence on purpose.

Luca’s shoveling salad into his mouth, Julian’s passing garlic bread across the table, while Eli and Thorn are doing a terrible job pretending they’re not amused at what’s going on.

Ryan’s wearing that grin that always means he started the fire but plans to watch it burn from a beach chair.

But Damien is standing next to Killian, flushed and tense. His arms are braced on the counter, and he’s glaring at Killian like he’s about to pick up the cast-iron skillet and throw it.

“He’s not even one of us,” Damien snaps, voice low and clipped. “He doesn’t belong here.”

Killian shrugs. “Ryan said he’s a swimmer.”

“ Recreationally ,” Damien hisses. “Not for the university or competitively. It’s a fucking hobby.”

“Bullshit, he’s got a full ride on the swim team and you know it,” Ryan offers, leaning back on his elbows with all the casual menace of someone who knows he’s untouchable. “Stop pretending you haven’t been keeping up with his progress.”

“You’re not serious,” Damien spits, turning his glare on Ryan.

Ryan just raises an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitching. “What, you afraid he’s gonna embarrass you by having more discipline in the water than you do on the court?”

Damien scowls. “Fuck off, Torres.”