Page 4 of Cruel When He Smiles (Sinners of Blackthorne U #3)

Liam

Nate Carter is angry again, and it’s beautiful.

Everyone else always talks about his eyes first. They’re pale green—so light they catch every gleam of light in a room and throw it back colder. The kind of eyes that make people do double-takes, whisper behind their hands, and ask if they’re real.

Paired with the sharp tilt of his eyelids and the thick waves of black hair that never obey unless he forces them into submission, he’s the kind of pretty that people don’t expect to spit fire. He’s the kind of beautiful that gets mistaken for delicate.

I don’t see it that way. What I see—what I’ve always seen—is the fury that lives under his skin.

It’s not an anger that throws chairs or screams in stairwells.

Nate’s anger is quieter than that; it’s more refined.

It simmers and seethes in the curl of his lip when he bites it back.

It’s in every smirk that lands just a little too fast, in every sarcastic comment that tastes like deflection more than humor.

That’s the part of him I watch.

The hidden violence.

The barely controlled fire.

Right now, he’s standing across the room, all tension and tight lines. He hasn’t moved since we walked back inside, rooted by the kitchen counter with a drink he hasn’t touched in a while.

His body language tells a story I already know the ending to, but I never get tired of rereading it. Arms tight across his chest, fingers clenching his cup, eyes flicking through the crowd, landing on everyone but me. Except I know he feels me watching.

I lean against the doorway leading into the kitchen, one hand curled loosely around a red Solo cup. I don’t drink much—never really got the point—but I know how to hold a glass the right way, and pretend I’m one of them.

Background noise fills the space: speakers vibrating with over-processed bass and drunken laughter bleeding from one room into the next. Killian’s voice cuts through it now and then from the living room, calling shots for a game I have no interest in.

Everyone’s performing, whether they know it or not.

What makes Nate interesting is he doesn’t perform, and he’s not trying to be liked. He’s not smiling for the crowd or leaning into the frat boy charisma that everyone else uses like armor. He’s raw, which is why they don’t really know what to do with him.

But I know what to do with him. I’ve always known.

His best friend, Sage, says something, and Nate tilts his head, mouth twisting in what would pass for a smile if you didn’t know better. That isn’t a smile, that’s restraint. That’s him biting back what he really wants to say.

I lift my drink to my lips, take a slow sip for the sake of the performance, then start moving.

I slip through the bodies, avoiding conversations without making it obvious and maneuvering my way toward the back door.

I step outside, the cool air hitting me like a reset button, while the muffled pulse of music still vibrates through the walls.

It’s quiet out here.

I take a breath. Hold it. Let it out slowly.

There are people on the patio: a couple making out against the railing, and another guy smoking something that must be cheap weed compared to what I usually smell around Damien. I ignore them and head toward the darker part of the yard, away from the noise, away from the pretense.

Because I know my Pup will follow me out here.

I roll my shoulders, and lean against the fence, looking up at the sky. It’s clear tonight. Stars scattered across a black expanse, indifferent and distant. I wonder what it would be like to feel that. Distance. To be so far removed from everything that nothing could touch you.

Footsteps sound behind me, and Nate stops a few feet away, hands in his pockets, expression flat. “Running away, Callahan?”

I offer him a smile. “Just taking a break from the noise.”

He doesn’t move closer, but he doesn’t leave either. There’s a beat of silence before he breaks it. “You always fake it this well, or are you actually having fun in there?”

I let the question settle between us. He’s watching me carefully, waiting for a slip, but I don’t give it to him. “Would it bother you if I were faking it or having fun?”

His jaw clenches. “I don’t give a shit either way.”

Liar.

I push off the fence, stepping forward enough to make him step back. “You’ve been watching me all night.”

Nate scoffs. “Yeah, because you’re watching me.”

I grin. He’s not wrong. “Maybe I just like pissing you off.”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I got that.”

He knows he shouldn’t be out here alone, but that’s the thing about Nate Carter—he can’t help himself when it comes to me. He wants the fight, even when he knows I’m playing him, even when he knows I’m baiting him. He still comes back, still takes the challenge, still reacts.

I wonder how far he’ll go before he realizes I’m not the one losing here.

I tilt my head, considering him. “Tell me, Nate—why do you ‘hate’ me so much?”

His hands curl into fists at his sides. “Because you’re fake.”

Interesting.

I smile. “That so?”

His jaw is tight, that same glare burning in his eyes that I crave. He hates me, and I enjoy every second of it. Because hate is still attention, and right now, he’s trying so fucking hard not to react.

It’s in the way his shoulders tighten, and his jaw locks up like he’s grinding his teeth down to nothing, how his hands flex at his sides because he wants to hit me but knows better. He’s holding it in, forcing himself not to give me what I want.

And it’s fascinating.

Even though he’s quick to anger, Nate Carter has discipline. I want to know how much of it I can break. It’s the whole reason I was needling him before he punched me.

I slowly step closer, and he doesn’t back away, but he doesn’t close the space either. He just waits. His green eyes flicker, a warning, a don’t fucking do it , but I don’t take warnings from people like him. I take opportunities.

I let my voice drop just enough that it forces him to listen. “You know, you say I’m fake, but you’re the one pretending right now.”

His brow furrows. “The fuck are you talking about?”

“You. Standing here. Holding it all in like such a good boy.”

His nostrils flare and his cheeks slowly turn pink. “Don’t fucking call me that.”

I let out a quiet laugh, then I lean in, forcing him to tip his head back to keep eye contact. He’s not small or weak, but he’s slightly shorter than me, and I know he fucking hates it. “You hate me, right?”

His jaw tightens. “Obviously.”

I hum. “Hate takes a lot of energy. You sure that’s what it is?”

His lips part then press back together like he’s thinking about his answer, like I just knocked him off balance for half a second. He doesn’t want to respond. Doesn’t want to engage because he knows what I’m doing.

I drag my gaze back to his eyes, watching him watch me. I smile again, but this time, I make it different. Not cocky. Not teasing. Simply… curious.

“Why do you react to me more than anyone else?” I ask softly.

His body locks up, and there it is. The beautiful hesitation. The second of doubt.

He recovers quickly, but I don’t miss it. I never miss it. “You’re not special, Callahan.”

I let that sit between us for a beat, before I carefully lean in closer to his ear—so close that I can see how his pulse kicks up at his throat. I keep my voice low and intimate. “You sure about that?”

His breath stutters, and I know it’s pissing him off that his body is reacting when his mind is screaming don’t play this game.

I pull back, and catch the brief moment his eyes flick to my lips. He swallows hard and takes a step back, shaking his head. “You’re a fucking headcase.”

I grin, and watch as he turns on his heel, stalking back toward the house, his whole body thrumming with frustration.

I exhale slowly, rolling my shoulders, and letting the cold air settle over me.

My new toy is breaking, and I’m going to enjoy watching it shatter.