Page 40 of Cruel When He Smiles (Sinners of Blackthorne U #3)

Nate

The first thing I notice when I wake up is the silence.

It’s the kind of quiet that sinks into your bones, the kind that feels too thick, too still, too much.

Sunlight bleeds in through the edge of the blackout curtain, casting a golden line across the sheets tangled around my waist. My arm’s flung above my head, the other resting low on my stomach, and everything in me feels heavy.

I’m sore in a way I haven’t been in a long time, but not from pain—it’s satiation.

I feel completely fucking sated.

I stretch, a deep exhale dragging out of me, my muscles loose and lazy.

For the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t feel like I’m about to splinter apart at the seams. There’s no vise squeezing around my chest, no thoughts dragging me under the second my eyes open.

There’s only stillness, a soft hum of contentment, and the ache deep in my hips and thighs that reminds me exactly why.

I drag a hand down my face, squinting at the clock on my nightstand, and blink when I register the numbers.

9:06 a.m.

What the fuck?

I sit up too fast, the sheet slipping down my stomach, and then it hits me.

Not just the soreness, or the fact that I’m late for my first class, but the flood of memories.

The sound of Liam’s voice in my ear. The weight of his body pressed into mine.

My own voice, breathless and desperate, begging for more—for worse.

His praise, his hands, the way he told me I was his, and how I didn’t say no.

Didn’t even think about saying no.

Fuck.

I all but begged him to take control. I teased him, pushed him, and needled him until he snapped. I wanted it; I wanted him unhinged. I wanted to see what he’d do if I stopped playing it safe. I asked him to ruin me and then thanked him for it.

I shove the blankets off and swing my legs over the side of the bed, my feet hitting the floor too hard. My skin is too warm, too exposed. Every mark, every bruise, every lingering ache is proof of what happened—and I wanted every second of it.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

My fingers twitch against the sheets, my skin crawling with the memory of last night, with how my body had melted under his touch, the way I had leaned into it, the way I had fucking liked it.

“Such a good boy.”

My breath shudders.

I’m not his.

I’m not .

My legs are shaky beneath me as I force myself to stand, and I don’t know if it’s from what happened or the realization of what it means. The room is too quiet, the absence of him making my stomach twist, even though I should be relieved he’s not here. Instead, all I feel is hollow.

Like he took something from me that I didn’t even know I had to give.

I stumble toward the bathroom, gripping the sink when I reach it, forcing myself to look.

I regret it instantly.

I stare at myself, at the wreckage of me, my chest rising and falling too fast, my fingers gripping the porcelain too tightly.

My lips are swollen, my throat—Jesus. Faint bruises, bite marks, dried cum, and the red imprint of Liam’s mouth over my pulse point.

There are scratches along my ribs where he must’ve gripped too hard, and lower, just visible above the waistband of the sweatpants I tugged on—finger-shaped shadows where he held me down.

My skin’s a map of everything I let him do, every moment I surrendered, and the worst part?

I don’t hate it.

That realization cracks something in my chest, and suddenly I can’t breathe.

I lean over the sink, trying to pull air into lungs that won’t fucking stay open.

My chest tightens, my vision blurring at the edges.

I don’t cry—I don’t fucking cry—but my eyes sting like hell as I grip the porcelain tighter.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. I wasn’t supposed to give in. I wasn’t supposed to want it.

“What the fuck have I done?”

My phone rings.

The sharp buzz cuts through the silence, startling me out of my own fucking head.

My grip tightens on the sink, my breathing still too uneven, my reflection still a disaster, still covered in him.

I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing myself to breathe, forcing myself to focus on the sound instead of the way my stomach feels like it’s fucking collapsing in on itself.

Liam.

Of course.

I stare at the screen, knowing I should ignore it and pretend this whole thing never happened. But my fingers move before my brain can stop them, and I swipe to answer, pressing the phone to my ear with a shaking hand.

“Breathe,” Liam says, before I can say a word. His voice is low and calm in that exact fucking way that needles under my skin and settles there. “I know you’re spiraling. I know your heart’s racing. I know you looked in the mirror and started tearing yourself apart.”

My throat closes at the sound of his perfectly fucking composed tone, like he didn’t ruin me last night, like he wasn’t the reason I woke up feeling like I had lost a fucking war I didn’t even know I was fighting.

I close my eyes. “Fuck off.”

There’s a faint chuckle, not mocking. Calming, somehow. “You always say that when you’re overwhelmed.”

“I’m not—” I stop, swallow the lie, and press my fingers to my temple. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”

“Yes, you do,” he says, softer now. “You’re thinking too hard. You woke up, remembered what happened, and now your brain’s running a mile a minute, telling you all the reasons why you shouldn’t have wanted it. But you did want it, Nate. You still want it.”

I don’t say anything, and his voice dips even lower into that coaxing, steady tone he uses when he wants me calm. “Breathe for me.”

I hate how my breath catches, how something inside me stills, how my grip on the sink loosens like I’m already settling into submission. I suck in a breath through my nose, slow and rough.

“Good. Again.”

I do it again. Slower this time.

“There he is,” Liam says, and my stomach flutters in that fucked-up way it always does when he talks to me like this. “You’re not weak for wanting me. You’re not broken for needing something rough to quiet your mind.”

I force my voice to be steady, my fingers curling into my palm, trying to grab onto something, trying to pull myself back. “Breathe for me again, Pup.”

I do. Fuck me, I do. Not because I want to, not even because I fucking choose to. But because I can’t not listen to him.

“Good,” he says again in a pleased tone. “You don’t have to fight yourself over this.”

I shake my head, gritting my teeth. “I’m not—”

“Shh.”

The sound slides down my spine, making my fingers twitch, making my skin prickle with something I don’t want to acknowledge.

“You did so well for me last night, do you know that?”

I feel that fucking sentence in my bones. My stomach drops, my chest tightens, my breath catches again—and fuck, fuck, fuck , it makes me feel good.

“I let you—” I start, then stop, fisting my hand in my hair again. “You—”

“I didn’t take anything from you, Nate. You gave it to me.”

I lean my head against the mirror, my forehead resting against the cool glass, and whisper, “That’s the part that fucks me up.”

There’s a pause. Then, that voice again—quiet, unshakable. “You need to get out of your head.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who—”

“Ran?” he cuts in gently. “Broke into my walls, made me lose control, made me snap when I’m the one who always stays calm? You think I’m not fucked up about it, too?”

That lands harder than it should.

Liam sighs. “Here’s what you’re going to do today.”

My spine straightens.

“You’re going to put the phone down and you’re going to shower, and then you’re going to eat something with protein and carbs. And when you’re done, you’re going to go to class and act like everything is normal.”

My heart stutters. “Liam—”

“No arguments,” he says, that dominant edge bleeding into his voice now. “You need this. You need me, Pup. So, stop fighting me when I'm trying to take care of you.”

And just like that, I’m still again. My body listens before my mind does. “Alright,” I whisper. “Okay, I’ll do that.”

“There’s a good boy.” Liam’s voice drops to something softer. “And tonight, you’re going to remember exactly how good you felt in my hands.”

A shudder rolls down my spine, and I can’t breathe.

I need to say something, need to tell him to fuck off, need to hang up. But all I do is whisper, “Why are you doing this?”

He hums. “Because you’re mine, Pup. And I always look after my toys.”

And before I can fucking react, before I can find my voice, before I can process what that does to me—

The line goes dead.

I stand there for another full minute, just listening to the silence left behind. My phone slips from my hand and lands on the bathroom counter. I stare at myself again, not to study the marks this time, not to panic, but to ground myself.

I have to get out of my head.