Page 42 of Cruel When He Smiles (Sinners of Blackthorne U #3)

It’s whiplash—a fucking collision of something dark and filthy and possessive, so blatant and so casual in his mouth, like he isn’t saying something that should make me snap. But I don’t. I just sit there, stunned, heat rushing to my face, my breath hitching even as I try to mask it.

Liam smirks, satisfied. “Is that it?” He leans in, breath warm against my skin. “You feel me every time you move, don’t you?”

I don’t do anything but breathe too hard, but stare too much, but let him fucking touch me. “Bet you woke up and felt empty without me there. You wanted my hands on you again, didn’t you?” His fingers press a little harder. “Say it, Pup. Say you missed me.”

That snaps me out of it. I jerk away from his touch, get to my feet, shove my phone into my pocket, and push him back with a scowl. “You’re so fucking full of yourself, Callahan.”

His smirk flickers, but not into amusement. It shifts into something else, something colder. Something that makes my stomach drop.

Disappointment.

“I thought we were past this,” he says, and it’s that tone that gets me. That quiet disappointment, like I failed him. Like I let him down. “You were doing so well, Nate.”

I wish I didn’t feel it. Wish it didn’t hit me in that stupid, aching part that still wants someone not to give up on me. But it does. And it makes me want to fix it, which is fucked on every level I know. I shouldn’t want to make anything better. Not with him. Not with this.

God, I hate myself.

I exhale shakily and reach for him. “Liam… I didn’t—” I swallow, my voice cracking. “I didn’t hate it.”

He doesn’t move and says nothing. He just watches me with that too-quiet expression that makes me feel exposed.

I’m still trembling, even though I’m pretending not to be, even though I keep telling myself I can control this, can keep him out. But I can’t, not right now. Not when my chest still feels tight and my throat feels raw, and I still hear her voice like it left teeth marks in my fucking skull.

“I didn’t mean to snap,” I mutter, my voice barely audible, like I’m ashamed of it. “I just…I couldn’t—”

He takes one slow step forward.

And then another.

There’s no threat in his movements. No smirk.

No challenge. Just that heavy, suffocating calm that only Liam can pull off—that quiet control he wears like a second skin.

I expect a sharp comment or a smug quip.

I expect him to weaponize the moment like he always does, twist it into something else, something messy. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he lifts one hand again and cups the back of my neck, warm and steady, his thumb brushing gently against the spot just under my ear.

“Hey,” he says, and it’s not soft like most people do soft. It’s quiet the way a knife is quiet before it cuts. “You don’t have to explain anything to me right now.”

I flinch at the tenderness and restraint in his voice. The lack of smugness… I don’t know what to do with that. He watches me for a second longer, then slides his other arm around my back and gently pulls me into him.

My breath hitches. I’m still holding onto everything too tightly—my tension, the panic in my chest—but his arms tighten just enough to tell me I’m not getting away from this. Not yet. Not until he says I can.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs, his voice low against the side of my face, and I hate how badly I needed to hear that right now. “Whatever that was, whoever it was? They don’t get to have you. Not right now, not while I’m here.”

I press my forehead to his shoulder without meaning to. My hands stay at my sides because I’m scared I’ll break the spell if I make it more than it is. But Liam doesn’t pull back. He doesn’t let go.

“Take a breath,” he says calmly, but he’s not suggesting; he’s instructing. “Come back down. I’ve got you.”

And I do.

I breathe. Slow and shaky, but I breathe.

Again.

And again.

And with every exhale, some of the tension in my shoulders gives. My hands uncoil. My jaw loosens. I still feel sick and off-balance, but he doesn’t let me drift too far.

“You’re not alone,” he says, barely a whisper, and his hand presses lightly to the back of my head, grounding me. “Push out whatever’s in your head right now. You’re with me.”

A part of me wants to tell him to shut up. To bite back like I always do. To pretend this doesn’t matter.

But the way he’s talking to me right now is drowning out my mother’s voice, and I’m slowly coming back to myself. He’s pushing her out… He’s forcing me to push her out.

The way he’s holding me right now isn’t how you hold someone you want to control, it’s how you hold someone you don’t want to fall apart.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” I admit quietly, the words barely making it past my lips. “I didn’t want anyone to.”

He pulls back and meets my eyes, hands still firmly on me as if letting go isn’t an option.

“That’s because you still think you have to prove something to me,” he says, voice serious. “But I don’t need you perfect, Pup. I don’t need the attitude and the sharp edges. I want you—even when you’re a fucking mess. Especially then.”

I blink too fast, and something burns behind my eyes. I drop my gaze, but he won’t let me hide. One hand lifts my chin again, and his touch is so gentle this time, it makes my throat close.

“You’re safe,” he says, firm enough to be a vow. “Do you hear me? You’re safe with me.”

The way he says it wrecks me.

And maybe he doesn’t know what he’s really saying. Maybe he doesn’t know what it means to promise me safety. But right now, in this second, I believe him. And that’s enough to make my chest cave in.

I nod once, barely. My hands finally move, curling against the front of his coat. “I’ve got you,” he repeats, voice steady as he wraps his arms tighter around me. “No one’s getting to you today. Not unless they go through me first.”

My lips part, but nothing comes out.

Liam doesn’t care. He doesn’t fill the silence with bullshit. He just keeps holding me like it’s something he’ll never stop doing, like I haven’t spent months trying to be untouchable.

His fingers flex a little at my back. “You feel better?”

I don’t answer with words, but I nod again.

“Good,” he whispers. “Stay right here a little longer. I’m not letting go until you’re ready.”

He doesn’t say anything else or pull away. He keeps one hand in my hair, the other steady on my lower back, holding me like he knows exactly how close I was to shattering. I stand there with him pressed against me, and for the first time in too long, I don’t feel like I’m drowning. Not completely.

He doesn’t ask about the call again, or why I’m spiraling. He just gives me this.

Silence.

Warmth.

Something that shouldn’t feel safe—but fucking does.

And I don’t care if it’s him. I don’t care if this is a mistake.

Because right now, I need it. I need him.

And maybe that’s the worst part of all this.