Page 15 of Cruel When He Smiles (Sinners of Blackthorne U #3)
I grab a glass from the shelf and fill it from the filtered tap, taking my time. No one notices I’m here yet, and that’s fine. I prefer it. The tension in the room is thick enough to chew, and it tastes like something personal.
Killian finally turns around, wooden spoon still in hand. He rests one hip against the counter and points the spoon at Damien and Ryan. “You two are going to make me fucking snap.”
Ryan raises both hands like he’s being accused of war crimes. “What? I didn’t do anything. I just asked for a favor.”
“That favor,” Damien snaps, “is Noah fucking Adams. The one who thinks I’m the devil because I apparently stole his birthday money when we were fifteen.”
Ryan laughs like it’s the best story he’s ever heard. “You did steal it, though.”
“I fucking didn’t. He wanted me to get in trouble and said if I didn’t take the blame, he was gonna tell Mom I made out with Trevor Marshall behind the dugout. And we both know how she loves ‘ the gays ,’” Damien quips.
That makes Thorn choke on his drink from across the table, and Luca finally cracks a grin. I step toward the counter, watching all of this unfold with the kind of detached interest I usually reserve for dissecting a mouse.
“What exactly am I walking into here?” I ask, leaning against the counter near the fridge, taking a long sip and letting the silence that follows ring just long enough to make it clear I’m not just making conversation.
Killian flips something in the pan again—chicken, I think. Garlic butter sauce bubbling around the edges—and nods in Damien’s direction. “Moore’s pissed because Noah’s coming to stay here until a dorm opens up.”
I arch a brow. “Noah?”
“His stepbrother,” Ryan’s grin sharpens. “And my best friend.”
I turn toward Damien. “Didn’t know you had a stepbrother.”
“I don’t,” he snaps before correcting himself. “I mean, I do, but we’re not—fuck, it’s complicated.”
Killian sets the wooden spoon down, and I can tell his patience is thinning beneath the surface. “I already said yes. He’ll be in the spare room, and it won’t be forever.”
“Jesus,” Damien mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “You didn’t even ask me. He’s my—he’s someone I have history with. You can’t just—”
“I can, because you don’t pay rent,” Killian reminds him smoothly. “None of you do anymore, thanks to me. You all just live here now.”
Damien’s lips thin. “That’s a low fucking blow.”
Killian wipes his hands on a towel before tossing it onto the counter, his blue eyes narrowed at Damien. “It’s not a blow, it’s a fact. You’re welcome to leave if you don’t like it.”
“Can we not burn the house down before the pasta’s even done?” Adrian, who is usually quiet, adds, stabbing a piece of bread with too much force.
I sit down slowly, dragging my chair out with the kind of deliberate grace that makes people think I’m calmer than I am. My eyes flick between Damien and Ryan, and I realize there’s more going on here than some territorial pissing match.
Damien’s red in the face, but it’s not just anger, and Ryan’s smile only deepens with every second he doesn’t speak.
“So,” I say, grabbing a piece of cut-up carrot from the salad bowl. “What’s the real reason you don’t want him here?”
Damien’s jaw flexes, and his eyes lock on the table. For once, he doesn’t have a comeback and doesn’t throw out an insult, a curse, or a deflection. He just stands there, breathing hard, hands clenched at his sides.
Ryan’s smile widens just a fraction. “Damien doesn’t do well with feelings.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Damien snaps, but the bite’s missing. It sounds automatic—reflexive and hollow.
I watch him carefully. “Is it really about Killian not asking, or is it about your stepbrother?”
The red creeps higher up Damien’s neck, crawling toward his ears. “Don’t fucking psychoanalyze me, Callahan,” he grits out, turns, and storms out of the kitchen, shoulders stiff, head down. The slam of the back door echoes a second later, and no one says anything for a moment.
Then Ryan laughs, like he’s been waiting for it. “That went well.”
Killian flicks sauce from the spoon in Ryan’s direction, and he yelps as it lands on his arm. “You’re an asshole for not warning him. He’s your teammate.”
Ryan shrugs. “I didn’t tell him to turn into a dramatic little bitch.”
“You baited him.”
“And you said yes to this without asking the rest of us.”
Killian shrugs. “I don’t need to ask. He’s staying. End of discussion.”
“You might want to talk to Damien when he’s not three seconds away from combusting, Kill,” Roman adds.
“I will,” Killian says, turning back to the stove. “After dinner.”
Luca leans back in his chair, tipping it onto two legs. “Being sober really makes me see how fucked up we all are.”
They all burst out laughing, but I watch Ryan’s expression carefully—watch the satisfaction curled into the edges of his smile, how he keeps glancing toward the hallway like he expects Damien to come storming back in and take a swing at him.
I lean my elbow on the table, twirling the glass between my fingers. “So, what’s the deal, really?”
Ryan doesn’t answer right away. He taps his finger on the rim of his glass, lips twitching. “Noah and Damien have history ,” he says finally. “More than the usual sibling shit. It’s complicated. Damien has issues. Noah’s too pretty. That’s the entire story.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Pretty?”
Ryan smirks. “He blushes when you comment on his eyes, has long blond hair he dyes blue, and smells like strawberries and anxiety.”
Killian plates the food without comment and starts setting dishes down on the island before we can ask more questions. “Everyone, shut up and eat. Damien’ll cool off and cope.”
“Or blow up again,” Ryan adds helpfully.
“That too.”
The smell of food distracts everyone eventually.
Plates get passed, silverware clatters against the island’s surface, and someone pulls out a bottle of wine that probably shouldn’t be opened on a Monday night, but no one stops it.
I eat quietly, filing every reaction away for later, my mind already dissecting the new variable.
At least this is keeping my mind off what, and who, I really want to think about.