Page 36 of Cruel When He Smiles (Sinners of Blackthorne U #3)

Liam

He’s changing again, and I don’t like it. It’s not even his words—it’s the silence. The looks. The absence. He stopped reacting, and now I’m unraveling by the second, bleeding obsession into places I swore I’d keep clean.

I notice it first at practice. It’s subtle, almost too subtle, like he’s trying to slip back into himself without anyone noticing. A few weeks ago, he was gone, dragging himself through the motions, his body on the field but his mind somewhere else entirely.

But today, there’s something different.

He still doesn’t push too hard, still doesn’t play like he’s got something to prove, but he’s present in a way he hasn’t been in weeks.

He’s not checking out mid-play, not letting himself get shoved around like he doesn’t care.

There’s a sharpness creeping back into his movements, an awareness that wasn’t there before.

And his eyes—fuck. They aren’t only alive, they smolder.

I wanted to break him just enough to watch him fight his way back, to see how he handled it, to see if he could crawl out of the pit I threw him into. Now he’s coming back from the ledge I pushed him toward, and all without my help.

By the time we make it to our last mandatory session with Ellis, I’ve convinced myself that I don’t care either way.

I don’t need Nate to be broken, don’t need him to be whole—I just need to know where he stands.

Because if there’s one thing I fucking hate, it’s unpredictability.

Right now, that’s exactly what Nate Carter is.

I lean back in my chair as Ellis starts talking, my mind barely in it, my focus drifting toward him, toward the way he’s sitting, the way his posture is just a little more upright than before. He’s not slouching, not resigned, not radiating the same vacant disinterest he has for the past few weeks.

He’s engaged.

And then he speaks. “I guess I just—” Nate exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “I regret snapping the way I did.”

I blink at that absolute bullshit, and Ellis beams like she’s just won the fucking lottery. Someone honestly needs to take her licence away. “That’s good, Nate. Awareness is the first step toward growth.”

I barely hear the rest of what she says because all I can focus on is Nate. His expression is contrite, his voice smooth, his words measured—but it’s all fake, I know it.

And Ellis eats it up, nodding along, clearly believing every fucking word out of Nate’s mouth, and I don’t know why, but it pisses me off.

This isn’t Nate. He doesn’t play these games, doesn’t lie like this. Nate is a fighter. He’s messy and reckless and real, and I broke that. I peeled him open, stripped him raw, made him fall apart, and I should fucking love that, I should be thriving in it, but now—

Now he’s sitting here, cool and composed, feeding Ellis bullshit with a voice so even, so controlled, that it reminds me of myself.

I don’t like this.

I don’t like him like this.

Ellis keeps nodding like she’s in the middle of some successful breakthrough, completely oblivious to how Nate’s eyes flicker with calculation. “That kind of self-awareness is exactly what these sessions are meant to help you with, Nate.”

Nate nods, lips pressed together, expression lined with just the right amount of regret. “Yeah, I’ve been thinking a lot about it. I guess I didn’t realize how much I let my temper get in the way.”

My nails dig into my palms.

Bullshit.

I know what regret looks like on him. I know what self-reflection feels like, and this is fucking manufactured.

He’s playing the role perfectly, sitting there like a model fucking patient, spinning some careful narrative of accountability, letting Ellis think she’s won, that this well-behaved, level-headed version of Nate is some great step toward progress.

But it’s all fake.

I feel unsettled and fucking confused. And when I feel like this, I only know one way to fix it.

I get vicious. I destroy.

So, when Ellis finally dismisses us for the last time, I don’t give Nate a chance to slip away. I don’t let him think he’s won something here. I fall into step beside him as we leave the office, matching his pace, watching the way he keeps his shoulders loose, posture still too controlled.

“That was a nice performance back there.” Nate stiffens. It’s barely there, just a fraction of tension in his shoulders, but I fucking see it. “Almost had me convinced.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look at me. “Fuck off, Callahan.”

I hum, thoughtful. “See, now, that doesn’t sound very remorseful.”

Nate rolls his eyes at that. “What do you want?”

I tilt my head. “What do you want, Nate?”

He finally looks at me then, his green eyes dark. “Nothing from you. Not anymore, at least.”

I smile. “Liar.”

His lips press into a tight line when I step close enough to invade his space, just enough to feel the way his body reacts, just enough to remind him that no matter how much distance he tries to put between us, I’ll always be right fucking there.

“You can keep pretending, Pup,” I murmur. “But we both know what happens when you do.”

His breathing is uneven now, fists clenched, and I know he wants to hit me. He won’t, because for all his bravado, for all his control, I still own pieces of him he hasn’t figured out how to reclaim. So, I push him.

“Come on, Nate.” My voice is soft and coaxing, the same way you’d lure something dangerous closer just to see if it would bite. “You think I don’t see through you? You think I don’t know?”

I lean in a little, dropping my voice into that low register he can’t resist. “You’re playing at control, but I already took that from you, didn’t I? How does it feel, knowing I still own you?”

Nate lets out a slow breath. Then, for the first time in weeks, he smiles.

Something inside me freezes. It’s not a smirk, not something cocky or angry. It’s a look that’s so measured, it unsettles something I don’t care to feel.

And then he reaches out. Fingertips light, tracing my jaw, my cheek, the way I touched him weeks ago. I can’t move, not because I can’t push him away, but because I don’t understand what’s happening.

This isn’t right.

This isn’t how this goes.

I push. He reacts. I win.

That’s how it’s supposed to work.

But now he’s touching me like he’s figured something out. Like he’s testing a theory. Like he’s learning something new about me that I don’t want him to know.

His voice is soft, almost amused. “Do you need my attention, Liam?”

My brain stalls.

He tilts his head, watching me too closely, too carefully. “Is that why you’ve been watching me?”

I feel my pulse in my throat, steady but wrong, too aware of every movement, every fucking thing about this moment that I don’t understand.

Nate lets out a breath, his thumb barely brushing my cheekbone before he steps back, before he takes that warmth away, before he fucking speaks again. “Must be exhausting, trying so hard to be untouchable when you’re just as desperate as the rest of us.”

And then he walks away, leaving me standing there still feeling the ghost of his touch on my skin. Still hearing his words ringing in my ears.