Page 37 of Cruel When He Smiles (Sinners of Blackthorne U #3)

Nate

I walk away, and for the first time since this whole fucking thing started, I feel like I’ve won.

Liam doesn’t call after me. He doesn’t grab me, doesn’t push back, doesn’t move.

He just stands there, still as stone, and I don’t need to turn around to know I fucking got to him.

I saw the flicker of something he didn’t want me to see.

The confusion in his eyes, the sharp inhale, the way his body locked up like he didn’t know how to process what just happened.

For weeks, he’s been pulling me apart piece by piece, setting me up just to knock me down, making me play by his rules, making me second-guess everything I was before him. But now I know he’s not untouchable. He’s not above this. He’s just like me.

Sage was right—Liam doesn’t get to fucking win.

I roll my shoulders as I put distance between us, letting the adrenaline bleed into something smoother, something satisfied. I didn’t just push back, I fucked him up. I made him feel something, and that’s what he didn’t want; that’s what he wasn’t expecting.

I smile to myself, pleased, a slow burn of satisfaction curling in my chest. Because I could have walked away like I always do, could have let him pull me into the same tired game, could have let him win.

But I turned it on him. I touched him the way he touched me. I made him question himself, made him feel watched, made him feel exposed, and the best part? The best fucking part? I could see how much he hated it, and, fuck, I loved it.

I’m not stupid, though. I know how he works, how he thinks, how his mind twists things into something worse, how he turns confusion into something uglier.

And I know he’s not just going to let this go.

He’s going to up the ante because he has to.

Because if he doesn’t, that means I won—and Liam Callahan doesn’t fucking lose.

I let out a slow breath, licking my lips, my mind already working through what comes next, what move he’s going to make, what he’s going to do to fix this and turn the tables back in his favor.

He’s going to come harder. He’s going to make me pay for getting under his skin.

But this time, I’m fucking ready for it.

The music is loud; the bass is shaking the floor beneath my feet, and the heat of too many bodies pressed into the frat house is making the air thick, charged, and alive. I haven’t felt this in weeks—this lightness, this freedom, this fucking release.

Sage is next to me, drink in hand, watching me with that familiar, assessing look like he’s still waiting for me to crack or fall apart. But I don’t. Not tonight.

Tonight, I’m present.

I laugh when one of the guys from my team slings an arm around my shoulders.

I talk shit with some girl in my class who barely remembers my name.

The alcohol settles warm in my stomach as I move through the crowd, letting the energy of the party wash over me, letting it sink into my skin, letting myself breathe for once.

I deserve this. I deserve one night where I don’t have to think about Liam. But of course, the universe doesn’t fucking work like that, because the second I feel that prickle of awareness at the back of my neck, I know he’s here.

I keep my expression smooth, my body loose, refusing to give him the reaction he wants, refusing to acknowledge him. This is part of the game now.

I push. He pulls. I poke at the fire just to see if it burns.

Liam doesn’t stay in the shadows tonight; he doesn’t watch from a distance. He comes to me. I feel him before I see him, his presence sending something cold slicing through my good mood.

“You look like you’re having fun.”

I turn slowly, and there he is. Tall, composed, leaning against the wall like he wasn’t just waiting for the right moment to strike. His hazel eyes flick over me, his mouth curved in something that isn’t quite a smirk or a sneer, but is something in between.

I tilt my head, meet his gaze, and offer him a slow blink. “Was,” I say, because I’m not interested in pretending. He ruins shit just by breathing in the same space as me.

But then I notice the rest of him. Not for the first time, and definitely not for the last. His shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up enough to show the tension in his forearms. His pants are dark and fitted with a kind of tailoring that whispers expensive.

His hair’s slightly tousled, not messy, just enough to look like someone touched it.

Maybe he did it himself, maybe not. I don’t let myself linger on that, but it’s hard not to.

Because even now—after everything, after the mindfuck he’s put me through—my gaze drags over him like it always fucking does.

My body doesn’t care that he’s a walking red flag.

My pulse doesn’t give a damn about my good intentions; it just spikes when he’s nearby.

When I breathe him in. When he gives me that look that says he knows things about me I haven’t admitted even to myself.

And goddamn it, he’s beautiful. He stands out without trying, every inch of him dressed in that coiled, still energy that says don’t touch unless you want to bleed.

That, somehow, is the hottest fucking part.

“I like the new energy,” he says softly, almost like a confession. “It suits you.”

There’s something off about his tone, something almost too controlled, almost as if he’s keeping himself in check, and for some reason, that makes my stomach tighten.

I take a slow sip of my drink, not breaking eye contact. “You want something, Callahan? Or are you just here to stand there and look pretty?”

His jaw ticks, but the smirk stays. “You tell me, Carter. You’re the one who wanted my attention, remember?”

I huff a laugh, shaking my head. “You keep telling yourself that,” I say, then I turn to leave, but I don’t get far.

His fingers wrap around my wrist, pulling me back toward him, but something about it feels different this time. I glance up, meeting his gaze. “Let go of me.”

He doesn’t; instead, his fingers tighten, his body angles closer, and his hazel eyes darken. “You think you’re so fucking smart, don’t you?”

I lift a brow. Fucking hell, I got him to curse outside of a sexual setting. “I think I touched a nerve since you're not acting like that sociopathic asshole I’ve come to know.”

His grip tightens enough to hurt, and fuck me, I see the cracks. The place where the polished Liam Callahan ends and the predator begins.

I lean in a little, lowering my voice. “Not used to someone playing your game better than you?”

His expression changes, the smirk falls, and for a split second—just a split second—I see that predator behind the mask.

Before I can process it, I’m being pushed back and shoved into the nearest empty hallway. My back hits the wall, his body crowds into mine, pinning me there, his breath hot against my face.

I look at him and suck in a breath because he isn’t smiling. He isn’t composed or calm, and he looks fucking furious.

“You keep pushing me,” he whispers, his voice shredded by restraint. “You keep baiting me like you want me to lose it.”

I stare up at him, my own breath unsteady now, my body tense, something shifting between us in a way I wasn’t prepared for.

This isn’t the version of Liam I know, not the version everyone else sees. He’s unraveling, and, fuck, it’s beautiful. I love watching him come apart and knowing I caused it. I crave the cracks in his armor, the places where he bleeds instead of bluffs.

He’s spent weeks breaking me down—pushing, pulling, dragging me to the edge just to watch me fall. But now he’s the one teetering. He’s the one barely keeping his footing, and I want to see how far I can push him before he snaps.

I smirk, tilting my head, letting my breath ghost over his jaw as I drop my voice, teasing, taunting, pushing. “What’s wrong, Lover?”

His whole body locks up.

Oh.

Oh, that got to him.

I let the word linger between us, let it settle into his skin, let him feel it. “You don’t like that name?” I continue, keeping my voice light, biting back a grin when I see that animalistic flicker in his eyes. “I think it suits you.”

His jaw clenches so tight I half expect his teeth to crack. “Nate.”

I hum, dragging my fingers up his arm slowly, watching the way his breath stutters. “Yes, Lover ?”

His nostrils flare. “Don’t fucking call me that.”

“Or what?” I murmur. “What are you gonna do?”

His hand jerks, his eyes flash, and for a split second, I wonder if I’ve pushed too far. Then his fingers slip to my throat and dig into my jaw, tilting my face up. His body is pressing into mine, trapping me between him and the wall, while his breath is unsteady.

“Or I’m going to remind you who started this,” he growls, his voice razor-sharp and feral.

I don’t flinch or blink. I just breathe in this version of him that he’s desperately trying not to become.

He’s so fucking close, and I can feel every inch of him now, from the flex of his thigh between mine to the tension humming through his chest. There’s a storm crawling under his skin, and I don’t think he knows how to contain it.

Good.

I want him cracked open. I want him exactly like this—untethered, unraveling, and messy. Not the golden boy with a weaponized smile. Not the therapist-in-training with a perfect GPA and a whole student body wrapped around his finger.

I want this Liam—the one breathing hard through clenched teeth, the one whose grip bruises because it’s the only way he knows how to hold on.

“You think you can scare me?” I ask softly, just for him. “You think I don’t know what you are?”

His jaw flexes. “You don’t know shit.”

“I know you’re fucked in the head.” I drag the words out slowly. “I know you like hurting people just to feel something. I know you get off on being in control, and I know you’ve been unraveling since the first time I looked at you and didn’t see the nice guy you pretend to be.”

For the first time since he crawled into my head, I don’t feel like prey. I feel wanted. That’s the part I can’t fucking shake—how much I want to be the one person he loses control for.

“You don’t fucking get it, do you?” he grits out, something feral bleeding into the words. “You think this is a game, Nate? You think you can keep fucking pushing me—”

“Yes.” I cut him off, licking my lips, watching how his gaze drops to my mouth, his pupils blown wide. “I do think that.”

“Don’t.” His voice cracks. There’s something broken underneath it now, something not even anger can hide. “Don’t fucking do this.”

“Too late,” I whisper. “You already let me in. You let me get under your skin, and now you don’t know what the fuck to do with it.”

His breath catches for a split second, then his lips crush against mine. It’s not sweet or gentle. It’s not even hungry.

It’s desperate.

I kiss him back harder, and it’s fucking war.

Mouths colliding, breaths stolen, hands grabbing at the edges of control neither of us really has anymore. It’s brutal, angry, and reckless. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask, it fucking demands.

And I give in because there’s no point in resisting. Not when he tastes like fury and obsession, not when his hands are everywhere. Gripping my hips, yanking me closer, teeth scraping my lower lip like he wants to rip it open.

His tongue invades my mouth like it owns the space. I curl my fingers into his hair, tugging just to hear that growl tear from his throat. He bites my lip in retaliation, pinning me harder to the wall, rutting against me with enough force to knock the air out of my lungs.

“Is this what you want?” he grits between kisses, voice wrecked and breathless. “You wanted to see me lose control? Congratulations, Pup, you've ripped my self-imposed leash away.”

I grin against his mouth and shake my head. “You’re still holding back.”

“You think you can handle it if I didn’t?” he mutters, pressing his mouth to the skin beneath my ear. “You think you want this, but you have no idea what I’ll do if you keep pushing. I’ll ruin you slowly. Beautifully. You’ll beg for more of the same pain you swore you didn’t want.”

I shiver under his touch, but I don’t look away. “Then do it.”

His lips twitch like he doesn’t believe I mean it. So, I pull him close and kiss him until he forgets how to breathe. This time, there’s no push and pull; there’s just need.

He kisses like he’s trying to erase the world, like he’s trying to replace every thought I’ve ever had with his name—vicious, possessive, branded into the curve of my neck like a threat.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against mine, his breath is unsteady, and he looks at me as if I’ve just done something I can never be forgiven for.

…How fun.