Page 17 of Cruel When He Smiles (Sinners of Blackthorne U #3)

Liam

I’m in the back of the bus, slouched against the window with one foot propped on the seat in front of me, phone in my hand and unread messages blinking on the screen.

Music plays through one earbud, low enough that I can still hear the conversations going on around me—mostly tired laughter and too-loud banter from the front of the bus where Coach Bryant pretends not to care how rowdy we get after a win.

Everyone’s glowing from it. Everyone except Nate.

He hasn’t spoken to me once since he thanked me last night.

Not even a glance or a muttered insult. He got on the bus without waiting for me, sat across the aisle two rows ahead, close enough that I could see the back of his head but far enough to make it clear that I wasn’t invited into his world today.

He’s got his hoodie pulled up, ear buds in, body turned just slightly toward the window. It’s clearly a defensive posture. I know it because I’ve worn it before—hell, I built that stance brick by brick the year everything in my life went to shit.

He’s hiding, but it’s not from the team. It’s from me.

And maybe that’s fair. Perhaps I crossed a line last night and pressed too hard when I should’ve walked away. Maybe I touched something I didn’t understand.

But the thing is, I understand it too well. I just didn’t expect to see it reflected back from him with that kind of clarity. I didn’t expect the sound of his scream to slice through my sleep like a blade and drag me across a memory I buried under years of silence and therapy I never committed to.

I get it. I do.

I haven’t had a night terror since I was thirteen years old.

The kind that locks your limbs down and buries you in memory until it feels real again.

That last one came just before everything went to hell.

I’d woken up gasping, drenched in sweat, nails digging into my palms. My father had been yelling from the hallway, furious that I hadn’t gotten up for my morning run.

My mother had already left for her practice.

No one asked why my knuckles were bleeding.

And then, four years later, they were dead, and I was already living in the hands of someone far worse. Someone who doesn’t yell, either. Who taught me silence could be sharper than a scream. The one person I trust above anyone else. The one person who knows me better than I know myself.

My brother.

I learned the truth about my bloodline before I could legally drink, and I learned exactly how to keep it hidden.

Not just from them, but from everyone. That’s the game; that’s always been the game.

Keep the mask on. Keep the truth buried.

Let the world see what you want them to, and never what you don’t.

So, yeah, I get it. I understand how it feels to wake up humiliated and exposed, with the past clawing at your throat, and someone else seeing too much. I understand the instinct to shut down, shut out, and pretend none of it touched you.

But I also know how to use it.

Nate gave me something last night that he shouldn’t have. A door, a key, and a crack wide enough to wedge my hand in and pry.

He responds to my voice.

I didn’t fully realize it until last night—how it settles him when I speak in that soft, low cadence. When I use words the way surgeons use scalpels. Not cutting, but precise and controlled. Dominant, without ever needing to raise the volume.

He responds to that and falls into it, even when he’s fighting me, part of him wants it. Needs it.

That’s what I’m going to use. Not to hurt him—well, not in the obvious ways. But in the ways that soften the edges first. The ways that crawl into your head and settle beneath the skin until you don’t know where your thoughts end and someone else’s control begins.

I don’t want him scared of me, I want him disarmed by me. I want him to feel safe in the palm of my hand, unaware of how tightly my fingers are curled around his throat until it’s too late to run.

It takes patience and precision. Two things I’m better at than most people give me credit for.

So, when I get home, I shower. I scrub my hands raw and stand under the heat until the sting at my side reminds me my stitches are still healing.

Then I towel off, change into sweats, sit on the edge of my bed with the phone in my hand, and break my own rule.

I open his contact—still saved under “Pup” with no shame—and type.

Me: You okay?

I leave it there and toss the phone onto the nightstand, letting the screen go dark.

He’ll answer when he’s ready. Or he won’t.

I already saw what I needed to see. I already know which parts of him flinch, and I know the words that get through when he’s locked up.

I know the way his breathing slows when I use a certain tone, how his shoulders sink when I say his name softer than usual. I know what he needs.

And now he’s going to learn what it feels like to be given what he needs by the one person who shouldn’t give it to him.

Not for free.

Not without consequence.

The seed’s been planted, and I’m a very patient gardener.

The field smells like grass and frustration. Freshly cut, damp from the morning dew, but heavy with the weight of whatever the hell Nate Carter is dragging through it today.

Practice started ten minutes ago, and he’s already taken out two teammates and nearly cracked the shin of a third. Even Coach Bryant is pacing the sidelines with that agitated squint, muttering under his breath about recklessness and control, the latter which Nate doesn’t seem to possess right now.

The rest of the team has started giving him a wide berth, letting him tear through drills with a fury that has nothing to do with soccer and everything to do with the storm still lodged behind his ribs.

I watch him from midfield, leaning into the stretch of my hamstrings as I twist my body into movement, eyes trailing him without bothering to hide it. He’s a mess today. A beautiful, unraveling, feral mess.

“Carter,” Coach Bryant finally barks, loud enough to cut through the wind. “Off the field.”

Nate skids to a stop near the sideline, his expression locked in tight fury. His jaw flexes, then clenches harder when Coach points toward the bench. “Now.”

For a second, I think he’s going to argue. His body tenses, chest rising and falling too fast, and there’s murder in the glare he throws toward Coach before he snaps his head away and storms off, yanking off his jersey mid-stride and tossing it down.

Coach Bryant shakes his head, muttering, “Somebody needs to knock sense into that kid.”

I straighten, wipe the sweat off my brow with the inside of my wristband, and make my way toward the edge of the pitch, not bothering to ask for permission.

Nate is halfway down the bench, elbows on knees, hands steepled together.

His hoodie’s back on—he must’ve had it on the bench—and the hood’s up again, his hair hiding the hard lines of his face, but not enough to hide how his mouth tightens when he hears my footsteps.

He doesn’t look up, but his entire body goes still in a way I recognize immediately.

Alert. Defensive. Braced for impact.

He thinks I’m coming to provoke him. To needle. To poke and push and twist the knife because he let me see too much.

I don’t stop walking until I’m close enough for him to feel my presence. Then I sit a few feet away, enough to give him breathing room, but not so far that it feels safe.

He doesn’t speak.

So, I do.

“You’re not doing yourself any favors playing like that.”

His shoulders tighten further, but he still doesn’t lift his head. “Don’t need the lecture, Callahan.”

“That’s good,” I say, my tone soft in the way I know hits harder than volume ever could. “Because I’m not offering one.”

He finally turns his head, one eye visible beneath the shadow of the hood. That green flint of his stare is cold. “Then what are you doing here?”

I shrug, resting my forearms on my thighs. “Checking in.”

“You already did that last night.” The words come out rough and clipped.

“And you didn’t answer,” I say. “So, I figured I’d ask again in person.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes and leaning back, arms crossing tightly over his chest. “I’m fucking peachy. Happy?”

I shake my head. “No. But I didn’t expect honesty, I just wanted to hear your voice.”

That earns me a sharper glance. “Why?”

“Because I like it,” I say simply, keeping my tone light. “Even when it’s laced with sarcasm and venom. Which, to be fair, is always.”

He looks away again, his jaw working, and I know he’s trying to decide how much he’s willing to give me. I don’t press or move, but I sit in the silence with him, the way someone did for me back when my own nightmares were running the show.

“I know why you’re angry,” I say after a moment. “I’d be angry, too.”

He stiffens. “You don’t know shit.”

“You’re right,” I agree without flinching. “I don’t know everything. But I do know what it feels like to wake up drowning in a memory and find someone standing over you. I know how much it makes you want to crawl back inside your skin and never let anyone see it again.”

His breath catches, and I pretend not to notice as I lean back against the bench. “You don’t need to talk about it. You don’t even need to acknowledge it. I’m not here to rip it open, but I am here to tell you that you don’t have to weaponize yourself every time someone touches a nerve.”

He finally turns to me fully, eyes narrowed, voice low and shaking with contained rage. “Don’t pretend you give a shit.”

I meet his gaze without blinking. “I don’t pretend, Pup.”

He flinches, and I don’t press the nickname. He squirms in his seat, staring at the grass now, shoulders slowly losing some of that rigidity. “I don’t need your help.”

“I know.” I nod again. “But I’m offering it anyway.”

His voice cracks when he speaks next. “Why?”

Because I see you.

Because you’re the only person on this campus who doesn’t fall at my feet, and manages to haunt my thoughts when I’m with someone else.

Because I want to dig my fingers into the spine of your anger and trace every cracked bone until I understand how you survived.

Because I want to replace the cracks someone else made with my own.

But I don’t say any of that. Instead, I say, “Because I’ve been where you are and nobody pulled me out. I still resent them for it.”

After a while, Coach blows the whistle again and shouts for everyone to reset drills. I stand, brushing off my shorts, and offer him a hand. I don’t expect him to take it, but I want him to see that I’m not pushing him anymore. That I’m just holding the space.

He stares at the hand, then up at me; those pretty green eyes looking so conflicted. He doesn’t take it, but he doesn’t shove it away either.

Progress.

I drop my hand and walk back onto the field without another word. He’ll follow when he’s ready. And when he does, I’ll be waiting—not as the Liam he’s learned to hate, but as the one who’s starting to understand that control doesn’t always come from pressure.

Sometimes it comes from patience, and I’ve got plenty of that to spare.