Page 23 of Cruel When He Smiles (Sinners of Blackthorne U #3)

Liam

The smirk still clings to my face by the time I push open the front door of the Sin Bin and step into the low-lit chaos I call home.

The air smells like stale weed, cheap body spray, and victory—the kind that sticks to your skin after a win, a fuck, or a power move. Mine feels like all three.

Nate Carter thinks I care about him—little does he know, I want him broken.

Not in a loud, dramatic, slam-you-against-a-wall kind of way.

That’s Killian’s style. No, I want to make Nate crave me the way a starving animal would crave poison disguised as food.

I want to make him kneel, not because he fears me, but because he misses me.

Because being without me feels worse than pain.

I want to ruin him with softness and decimate him with kindness. Then I’ll devour him whole.

Killian’s door is half open, and I can already hear the wet, gagging sound of someone on their knees. No effort to hide it, of course. He doesn’t care who hears. The scent of sweat and sex is thick in the air before I even step inside, but I don’t flinch. I don’t turn away.

There’s a shirtless blond guy bent low between Killian’s legs, working his mouth like it’s his only purpose. Killian’s got one hand in his hair, pushing, not guiding, while the other hand is behind his head.

His eyes cut to mine the moment I take the chair across from him—the big, black leather one by his desk; the one I know that he only lets me and Roman sit in. Our eyes meet, but he doesn’t stop fucking his toy’s mouth and doesn’t even blink.

I cross one leg over the other, lean back, and rest my cheek against my knuckles, watching with the same detached interest I’d give to a nature documentary. I’m not here for the show; I’m simply waiting for it to be over.

Killian doesn’t rush. He’s never in a hurry when taking what he wants.

He keeps his gaze locked on mine, like the mouth around his cock is just white noise, a convenience, a background hum to the real game playing out between us.

And I let him have the eye contact, even with his eyes half-lidded from pleasure.

He’s testing me.

Again.

The guy between his legs makes a desperate noise, gagging faintly as Killian tightens his grip and thrusts hard into his mouth. It’s sloppy, loud, and wet; the sound that would make anyone else shift uncomfortably or roll their eyes and walk out.

He exhales slowly through his nose. “You’re quiet,” he murmurs, holding the guy’s head down until he turns red and coughs before letting go. “What’d you do, little brother?”

I glance at my nails. “I fed a starving dog,” I say coolly. “And watched him pretend he wasn’t hungry.”

Killian’s smile is lazy and razor-edged. “Hold that thought,” he says and groans again, more breath than sound this time, and I know he’s close. He pushes the guy’s head down harder, forces one last shuddering thrust, and then he goes still.

When he comes, he doesn’t flinch or even sigh. And when the boy pulls off, mouth slick and panting like he’s just run a fucking marathon, Killian pats his cheek twice—absent and impersonal—and says, “There’s a good boy. You can go now.”

The guy scrambles up, wiping at his mouth, red-faced and dazed. He catches sight of me before he leaves, and his expression tightens like I’m the threat he should’ve been worried about all along, and not the literal murderer whose cum he swallowed. He bolts, closing the door with a slam.

Killian wipes himself off with a t-shirt from the floor and tosses it across the room into his hamper. Then he tucks in his pierced cock and falls back on the bed like a prince exhausted from too much worship.

“Jesus, that was boring,” he mutters, staring at the ceiling. “Mouth like a vacuum. No soul in it.”

“You say that about all your toys.”

“Because it’s true every time. But you,” he turns his head to look at me, lips quirking as he studies my face, “that smile is either post-orgasm or pre-homicide. And knowing you, I’m guessing both.”

My smirk deepens. I uncross my legs, lean forward with my elbows on my knees, and tap a finger against my lower lip. “Not every mess ends with a body,” I murmur, brushing invisible lint from my sleeve. “Some of them you just leave bleeding without giving them the courtesy of death.”

“Do tell,” he drawls, already sounding entertained.

I glance at the ceiling, thinking of Nate submitting to my soft side, and I smile wider.

“Nate truly believes I’m a safe space now,” I say, almost idly.

Killian barks a laugh, dragging a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “You’re joking.”

I shake my head. “Dead serious. He came apart in my hands and let me talk him through another panic attack.”

His gaze sharpens. “You talked him through it?”

“He was dissociating.” I reach into my pocket, pull out a cigarette, and light it with the matte black Zippo lighter I stole from Killian three years ago.

He never asked for it back, and I know he probably enjoyed knowing I carried a piece of him everywhere I went.

“Didn’t say a word for almost ten minutes.

Eyes wide, teeth clenched. He couldn’t even move or speak before I got to him. ”

Killian studies me for a long beat. His smile doesn’t move, but his posture shifts, and tension tightens the air between us. “So, instead of finishing the job,” he says slowly, voice flatter now, “you… grounded him?”

I nod, blowing smoke out the side of my mouth. “Pinned him to his car and talked him down.”

Killian whistles, long and impressed. “Didn’t think you’d actually be gentle with him. You were doing so well pretending you didn’t care.”

“I don’t care,” I say smoothly, and it’s almost true. “This isn’t about need; it never was. I just needed to know what kind of leash he’d take. Turns out, the soft one fits best.”

He narrows his eyes at that. “Soft?”

I nod once, leaning forward and resting my elbows on my knees. “Brutality works, but he expects that from me. He’s been trained to brace for impact. But gentleness? He doesn’t know what to do with that, or how to guard against it. So, he leans into it.”

Killian swings his legs over the side of the bed and plants his feet on the ground, elbows on his knees now, matching my posture. “You always were better at slow burns than me.”

“That’s because I don’t burn,” I murmur, my voice deadly even. “I rot. Quietly. Beautifully. And by the time you notice the stench, it’s already inside your lungs.”

He grins as if he’s proud of me, and I know he is. Killian and I don’t need to say we love each other. We don’t need words like that. We say it in war, in shared destruction, in how we sharpen each other’s edges enough to make the cuts cleaner.

“Now you’re speaking my language,” he says. “You always go straight for the mind, don’t you? Most people fuck to scratch an itch. You fuck to filet them open just to see what leaks out.”

“Because the truth is in how they break. I want him dependent,” I say, grinding out the cigarette.

“Not just turned on or humiliated. I want him to reach for his phone and hope it’s me.

I want him to come without knowing if he’s allowed to.

I want him asking himself if I meant it when I said he was a good boy. ”

He watches me with something darker threading through the amusement. “So, you’re going to keep being soft? Keep whispering nice things until he melts into your hands?”

I tilt my head. “You think I should rip him open right now? Crush him too soon and all I’ll have left is a pile of bones.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is,” I reply evenly. “A corpse can’t beg.”

Killian chuckles again, but there’s a flicker of pride in it now, the kind only a fellow monster can recognize. He leans back on his palms, studying me. “You like him.”

“I want him,” I correct, “like you want a maze you can’t solve. I want to take him apart and rebuild him wrong just to see if he can still function.”

He grins again. “You manipulative bastard.”

I bow my head. “Thank you.”

He stands and grabs a cigarette off the nightstand, lighting it with the silver Zippo lighter. I watch the flame burn down, the slow inhale, how he tilts his head up toward the ceiling. “You always were the romantic of the two of us.”

“Says the guy who breaks bones instead of hearts.”

“Bones heal. Feelings don’t.” He shrugs. “And you know we don’t love, little brother.”

“I don’t,” I say flatly. “This isn’t love.”

“Obsession, then,” he corrects, eyes glinting. “Which is worse. But what happens when he begs you to stay? When he’s soft and everything you want wrapped in your sheets? What then?”

“I’ll keep him.”

Killian raises an eyebrow at that. “Even when he starts to matter?” I pause long enough for him to see it. He leans back against the wall with a dark, pleased grin. “You’re already there, aren’t you?”

“No,” I say. “But I could be.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, cigarette dangling from his fingertips. “You sure you’re not slipping?”

“If I were slipping, I’d tell him the truth,” I say coolly. “That I’ve never felt like this about anyone, and he’s the first person to make me want in a way I can’t rationalize. That it scared me so much I cut myself in the shower and stared at the blood just to remember who I am.”

Killian’s smile disappears. “You did what?”

Oh, fuck. The words slipped out before I could reel them back, but their damage is done. Killian’s cigarette hangs forgotten between his fingers, the ash trailing too long, untouched.

“It’s handled,” I blurt.

“You cut yourself again?” he demands, his voice dark.

“I said it’s handled.”

His fingers flex once before he crushes the cigarette against the edge of the nightstand, the ember flaring, smothered out with an angry hiss. Then he crosses the room in three strides, grabs my wrist, and yanks me to my feet. “Show me.”

“No.”

“Liam.”

“Not now,” I grit out. “I’m in control again. I made it through without losing to whatever the fuck is breaking me from the inside out.”