Page 24 of Cruel When He Smiles (Sinners of Blackthorne U #3)

Killian’s jaw ticks, but he says nothing at first. Something tells me he’s deciding between violence and restraint—and we both know which one always wins.

I see it coming a second too late.

He grabs me by the front of my coat and slams me hard against the wall, the force knocking a breath out of my lungs and sending a framed photo crashing to the floor. My back hits the plaster, and the resulting thud reverberates through my body, but I don’t flinch, and I don’t fucking blink.

Because this is Killian. This is who he is when he cares, when he doesn’t know what the fuck to do with an emotion he has no blueprint for.

His blue eyes are bright with fury, not performative rage or anger for show. Real, visceral, born-in-the-blood rage that shakes through his frame. His arm presses across my collarbone, close enough that I feel the threat in his body.

“I warned you that if that little brat was going to be the reason you destroy yourself,” Killian says, voice lethal, “I would personally take care of the problem.”

My jaw clenches. “You won’t touch him.”

“Don’t fucking test me, little brother.” His grip tightens, dragging me forward only to slam me back again, menace radiating from every tense muscle.

“I’ve picked you up off the floor and cleaned your blood out of the drain.

Sat outside your door while you screamed at ghosts that aren’t real.

You think I’m going to stand by while some brat undoes three years of healing? ”

My voice is even when I speak. Cold. Controlled. “You don’t know him.”

“I don’t need to,” he growls, his breath hot against my face now. “All I need to know is that you were doing fine until he started mattering. You were focused. Unshakable . And now?” His lip curls. “Now you’re cutting again after three years. Because of him .”

His eyes flicker with concern and sadness, but then it’s gone before I can reply. “You don’t get to turn soft. Not you. You were the one thing in this house I didn’t have to worry about losing.”

I swallow, my throat dry. “I’m not soft, I’m strategic with him.”

“Bullshit!”

Killian’s palm presses harder into my chest, but he doesn’t speak for a long moment. He watches me as if he’s looking for something deeper than lies or deflection. An emotion I might not even know I’m giving away.

He lets out a long breath and shakes his head. “I’ve seen you lie to everyone, Liam. Coaches. Doctors. Professors. Yourself. But I’ve never seen you lie to me.”

I suck in a stuttered breath. “I’m not lying.”

“You’re not being honest either,” Killian snaps, slamming his hand against the wall beside my head.

“I see your face when you talk about him. You’re not supposed to look at your marks like that or fantasize about keeping them.

You don’t shake when you talk about how much you want to hurt them.

Unless it’s not about the pain anymore.”

“I said I’m in control.”

“No, you’re in danger.” He shoves me once more for good measure before stepping back. His fists are clenched so tightly I can see the tremble in them. “You think I won’t kill for you? You think I won’t rip out a boy’s spine to keep you from falling apart again?”

I stiffen fractionally, another tell that Killian immediately catalogues. “That’s not your call.”

“You’re my brother, that makes it my call,” he grits out, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “If this thing with Carter ends with you bleeding out again, I’ll end him—”

I surge forward, closing the space, getting in his face. “If you touch him, Killian, I swear to god—”

“What?” he roars. “You’ll kill me instead? You’ll trade me for him ?”

We stand there, breathing hard, every inch of the room vibrating with static. Both our chests are heaving with the kind of pressure that begs to be screamed or shattered.

I lower my voice. “You don’t get to be jealous.”

“I’m not fucking jealous,” Killian says, though it sounds like a lie even to him. “I’m terrified. Because for the first time in your life, you look like prey.”

That stops me.

That silences the rest of the venom on my tongue.

Killian doesn’t admit when he’s scared. He doesn’t do fear; he mocks it. Dismantles it. Feeds off it like oxygen. But looking at him now, I see it for what it is—curled beneath the fury, beneath the threats, beneath the promise of violence.

“I’m not going to let him ruin me,” I say, trying to placate him. But he doesn’t believe me. Not really.

He stares at me and I know he’s waiting for me to fold under my own conviction.

The overhead light flickers, catching on the sheen of sweat above his brow, and for a second, he looks less like a killer and more like a boy about to break.

His silence is worse. That’s a scream with all the sound ripped out.

So, I close the space between us. My hand lifts, and I press my palm flat against his chest, right over his heart. I can feel how it’s hammering. Not that he’d ever admit it. But I feel his fear in the way he doesn’t push me away.

“I remember what you’ve done for me,” I murmur, not looking away. “Every time I broke. Every night you stayed outside my door when no one else knew how to deal with me. Every time you cleaned my blood off the floor before I even asked. I haven’t forgotten any of it, Killian.”

His throat works around the lump I know is there, but he doesn’t answer. So, I keep going.

“I know you think Carter’s gonna ruin me. That I’ll turn into something soft and breakable. But I’m not slipping, and I haven’t changed,” I say.

The sharp twist in his features falters, and he blinks as if I slapped him. He shakes his head once, eyes glassy with too much he can’t process. “You cut yourself again,” he whispers, blue eyes hard, “and you didn’t even tell me.”

“I didn’t want to give you one more thing to worry about.”

His voice drops lower, rough as gravel. “You fuckers in this house are the only things I ever worry about.”

My chest tightens, and I know he means it. He’s never loved easily or kindly. Never touched with gentle hands or kissed anyone without wanting to own the air in their lungs.

I press my forehead lightly to his, a gesture I haven’t done in years. Since before we were boys playing house in mansions built on rot and silence. Before we understood what we were becoming.

“I bled in that shower because I didn’t know what to do with the want,” I say. “But I’m still the same fucked-up version of myself you dragged off the bathroom floor at sixteen.”

He sighs. “But you’re slipping.”

“Then catch me when I do,” I sigh. “You’ve been catching me since we were kids, Kill. Might as well keep your streak alive.”

A rough sound escapes him, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, and I feel the fight bleeding out of his shoulders. His head tips, forehead pressing harder against mine, and for a second, we’re just two boys who found out they shared the same rotten bloodline.

Two boys raised by monsters.

Two sons forged in survival.

“I’ve got this under control,” I say again.

Killian steps back, grabs another cigarette, lights it, and breathes in deep before letting the smoke roll from his mouth.

“You don’t,” he says. “But you’re going to pretend you do, and I’m going to let you. Because you’re my brother, and I’ve never stopped you from setting fires before.”

He exhales again and walks to the window, resting his hip against the frame.

“But if you ever come back here bleeding over that boy again and letting him undo everything I’ve stitched back together—” He looks at me then, blue eyes cold and final.

“I will put him down. I lost a brother once; I won’t fucking lose another.

So, please don’t make me dig another hole. ”

I nod once, not in agreement, but acknowledgment, and he turns, walking back to his bed and collapsing onto it again like he’s already spent.

“You want to keep playing prey?” he says. “Fine. Just don’t forget who the real predators are.”

“I won’t,” I say, already halfway to the door. “But it’s easier to eat them when they come willingly. By the time I’m done with Nate, he won’t remember who he was before me. He’ll rewrite his entire personality around my attention.”

Killian exhales a cloud of smoke and smiles widely. “Now that’s my brother.”