Page 20 of Cruel When He Smiles (Sinners of Blackthorne U #3)

Liam

His lips are still warm and barely parted. Still close enough that I could pull him right back in if I wanted to—and god, part of me does. But I make myself ease off slowly, letting the air settle between us again as I pull back to look at him again.

His eyes are red-rimmed, lashes still clumped from tears. His mouth is soft now, not clenched like before, and he looks both disoriented and thrown. Fragile in a way I know he hates, and that’s exactly why I tread carefully, even now.

I keep one hand against the back of his neck, steadying him, thumb dragging lightly across the skin. It’s a grounding touch, not a demanding one. I lean in so that my voice doesn’t have to travel.

“You okay?” I ask again, keeping my voice low.

He looks down, swallows once, and gives the barest shake of his head. It’s not dramatic since he’s not falling apart anymore, but he’s still cracked open in places he’s not used to showing.

“Alright,” I say, nodding once, my voice a notch softer now. The tone I’ve been saving. The one I used in that hotel room when I grounded him with nothing more than calm authority.

“Here’s what you’re going to do, Pup,” I murmur, brushing my thumb along the side of his throat, over skin that’s still flushed. “You’re going to go home. Straight back to Sigma House. No detours.”

He’s still breathing hard, still locked in his head, so I tilt my head and drop my voice again.

“You’re going to take a long shower. Not the quick kind, not just to rinse off the day. I want steam. I want heat. I want you to feel your muscles loosen, feel the tension bleed out of you until there’s nothing left to hold onto.”

His eyes flick to mine at that, quick and uncertain. I don’t give him room to question it.

“Then you’re going to eat something. Real food. Not a protein bar, not leftover takeout. I want you to eat something warm, something that reminds you your body exists for more than punishment.”

I step back a fraction, just enough to release the grip on his neck, but I let my fingers trail down his arm to keep that tether between us intact.

“And then you’re going to bed,” I say. “Not to lie there thinking. Not to scroll through your phone until you spiral again. You’re going to lie down, close your eyes, and sleep. Can you do that for me, Pup?”

He stares at me like he’s not sure if I’m serious or playing a game, but I hold his gaze until he lets out a slow, long exhale and nods. It’s not quite surrender, but it’s a step in that direction.

His voice is barely above a whisper when he asks, “And if I can’t sleep?”

I let the corner of my mouth twitch with a hint of a smile. “Then you text me,” I say. “Doesn’t matter what time. You don’t need to say much. Just let me know, and I’ll talk you down.”

He blinks, and for a second, I think he’s going to argue, but he doesn’t. He nods once; it’s jerky and still uncertain, though.

“Okay,” he says in a soft voice. “Okay… I can do that.” Then he glances toward his car, but I don’t move until he does, and I don’t break the gaze until he turns away and starts walking.

He looks back like he half expects me to call him back, but I won’t. There’s a frown on his face, but then he shakes his head and gets into his car—soaked practice uniform and all.

And when I’m sure he’s out of sight, the smile breaks.

Not gentle.

Not amused.

Feral.

It spreads slowly, curling at the corners of my mouth until I feel it in my teeth. My shoulders relax, and I exhale through my nose, head tilting back as I let the grin bloom without restraint.

Because I didn’t need a kiss tonight, that wasn’t the win.

The win was how he broke apart in my arms and didn’t run.

The win was the way he looked at me with tears in his eyes and didn’t flinch when I touched him.

The win was that voice—wrecked and tired—asking me why .

Demanding to understand why I gave a damn, then falling apart when I answered.

But the real victory?

He listened when I told him what to do. He listened and didn’t fight it, even if his pride wanted to. He responded how I knew he would—to the right kind of tone, the right kind of control. Soft and steady with no threats.

He’s pliable under it. Not weak, never that. But open and receptive in the way only people who’ve never felt safe learn to be when they finally taste it for the first time.

And now that I’ve found the lever, I’m going to wedge it deeper every time he tries to close it again. Not to break him, but to shape him.

It’s not about ownership. It’s about knowing I’m the one who gets through to him. The one who sees him stripped of his fronts and his fire. The one who doesn’t need to raise his voice to command his attention. The one he ran to after tonight, needing something he didn’t know how to name.

All while still thinking he made those decisions himself.

I don’t have to chase him; he’s already circling back, even if he doesn’t realize it yet. And when he does—when he finally admits that the tension between us isn’t just pain or resentment or buried trauma—I’ll be right where I’ve always been.

Waiting. Watching.

Patient as sin.

I walk into the Sin Bin with that same twisted little smirk still playing across my lips. The house buzzes around me, the familiar chaos barely reaching past the ringing in my ears.

I shut the front door and let the muffled chaos of the kitchen carry on without me. Someone’s blasting music from the living room, Damien maybe, and there’s the usual rattle of voices from upstairs. Laughter. Arguing. Someone yelling at Thorn to stop walking around without boxers again.

I climb the stairs two at a time, pushing open my bedroom door without turning on the lights.

The window’s cracked open enough to let the breeze in.

My shower’s a blur—steam, water, the smell of cedar and clean slate.

I wash away the salt and sweat, but nothing washes away the imprint of Nate’s body trembling in my arms or how his lips parted against mine like he’d been holding in that breath for years.

The water scalds the edge of my thoughts clean. I stand under the stream longer than I need to, letting the heat work its way down my spine, wishing it could cauterize the parts of me that still feel too much when I look at him.

I towel off, pull on gray sweatpants and a black tank, and drag the towel over my hair. I’ve barely taken a step when a voice cuts through the haze.

“You’re in your head.”

My head snaps toward the corner of the room on instinct, expecting a threat. But it’s not a threat. Not exactly.

Killian’s lounging in the leather chair opposite my bed, one leg crossed over the other, the Zippo I gave him years ago snapping open and shut in his palm.

Click. Snap. Click. Snap. The rhythm isn’t random. Nothing about Killian ever is.

His blond hair is damp from his own shower, curling slightly where it brushes the side of his face. The buzzed sides of his skull make the slicked-back top look almost too clean. He’s in a white tee and black joggers, veins prominent in his forearms.

Six-three, same as me; same build, same brutal pedigree, but we’re mirrored in reverse. I’m dusk to his daylight. Brown to his gold. Hazel to his ice. If I’m the knife, Killian King is the open flame it was forged in.

“And you’re in my room,” I say, dragging the towel off my hair, then moving past him without another glance. “Breaking and entering now, Kill?”

“I was here before you,” he replies without missing a beat. “You walked in like you were chasing ghosts. Thought I’d let you settle into your existential crisis before I said hello.”

He says it with that calm, razor-thin voice. The one that always carries something sharp underneath, even when he’s smiling. Especially when he’s smiling.

I exhale slowly and ignore the bait, tossing the towel toward the hook behind the bathroom door. “There’s no existential crisis.”

Killian hums like he doesn’t believe me. He flips the lighter again, the tempo of a weapon being cocked.

“You could’ve knocked,” I mutter, walking toward my desk and leaning back against it, crossing my arms.

He shrugs. “I don’t knock on doors that were never closed to me.”

I narrow my eyes. “Maybe they’re closed now.”

“No, they’re not,” he says smoothly. “You only slam them when you want me to kick them in.”

The Zippo clicks again, once, then stays shut this time. His blue eyes lift to mine, but there’s no smile on his face now. No smirk, just that quiet, relentless kind of focus he saves for when he’s digging.

“You here to psychoanalyze me?” I ask. “You want a notebook? A couch?”

“You wouldn’t sit still for either,” he murmurs. “Besides, we both know you don’t talk unless you want to hurt someone. So, who are you trying not to hurt right now, little brother?”

The nickname scrapes raw under my ribs, even if I never show it. He says it with a smirk, always does. “You were born two months before me,” I say flatly. “It’s not a title.”

He smirks and tilts his head to the side, displaying the XIII tattooed just behind his ear. “It is when you wear it like you’re trying to outrun it.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“And you’re deflecting,” he says, and I stare at him for a long second, waiting him out. “You forget that you’ve got a tell.”

I remain standing, arms folded loosely, letting him look. Letting him pry. “I don’t,” I lie calmly.

“You do. And I only see it when you’ve had your teeth sunk into something you don’t want to let go of.

” He says, the lighter now spinning across his knuckles with a rhythm too precise to be careless.

“You’ve been twitching since preseason. Coming home like there’s a dog gnawing at your spine and you’re not sure whether you want to kick it or feed it.

So, I’ll ask again: who has their claws in you? ”