Page 43 of Cruel When He Smiles (Sinners of Blackthorne U #3)

Liam

Nate is mine.

I feel it now, in the way his body stills and his breath stutters, in the way his fingers twitch against my chest as if he’s waiting for me to tell him what to do next.

I tilt his chin up a little more, watching his pupils dilate, his lips slightly part, his whole fucking body responding to me without him even realizing it.

I press a slow kiss to his forehead, feeling the tension in his body coil and then melt away. He doesn’t even realize what’s happening; I’ve already trained him to give in. When I pull back, my lips barely ghost over his temple, my voice soft, meant only for him. “Come to my house tonight.”

A flicker of hesitation and resistance crosses his expression, but it disappears almost as quickly as it comes. So, I press. “Don’t let Sage know.”

His throat moves as he swallows, and I wait, watching, feeling the slow shift, the final surrender in the way his shoulders drop. “Okay.”

Satisfaction settles deep inside me. I drag my thumb over his bottom lip one last time, smirking when his breath catches, when he doesn’t pull away, when he lets me take this moment for myself.

“Good boy,” I murmur, dragging my knuckles down his jaw, savoring how his body reacts to the praise and how he leans into me.

I smile, pleased with my Pup, then I walk away without looking back, because I already have him. I step into the flow of students moving between buildings, ignoring the noise, ignoring the world around me, my mind already moving forward. Already focused on what tonight is going to bring.

I’m going to find out why one specific phone call always sends him spiraling. I know there’s something else inside him that makes him have night terrors—the reason for the fury under his skin.

Someone else has a piece of Nate Carter, and I want it back.

I don’t know how I’m going to pull it out of him, but I will; I need to.

The look on his face—the sheer horror, the way his skin went pale, the way his fingers shook around his phone, the way his entire body locked up like he was bracing for impact—that look has been fucking burned into my mind ever since.

And I hate it. I hate that someone has the power to make my Pup look helpless. Because Nate isn’t helpless. He’s fire and fight, he’s sharp edges and stubborn fucking pride, he’s a brat with a mouth that never fucking quits, he’s—

Mine. He’s fucking mine.

I drag my tongue over my teeth, exhaling slowly and forcing myself to focus. I don’t care how long it takes; I don’t care how deep I have to dig. I will find out who the fuck made him look like that today. And when I do, I’ll burn them out of him piece by fucking piece.

Tonight isn’t about dragging him down further. Tonight is about finding out who the fuck thinks they own my Pup.

My jaw clenches.

I don’t know why this feeling is crawling under my skin like this. I don’t know why my stomach turned at the sight of him sitting there, barely breathing, his body language screaming fear, revulsion, submission—but not the kind that belongs to me.

It was different. It was wrong, and I fucking hated it.

I roll my shoulders back, flexing my hands, trying to put a name to whatever the fuck is boiling in my chest, but the only thing that fits is obsession.

That’s what this is, right? That’s what Nate is to me: an obsession. A challenge. Something I need to own, to keep, to bend until he’s exactly the way I want him to be.

That’s all this is, nothing more.

It can’t be anything more.

I don’t do emotions, not like this. Not the sick, twisting thing that cracked down my spine when I saw him on that bench.

I don’t do the kind of ache that lingers long after I’ve walked away from someone.

I don’t do guilt or concern, and I sure as hell don’t care.

Not in the way people mean when they say that word.

What I feel is ownership. It’s the rush of watching him unravel because I told him to. It’s the way his breath catches when I call him Pup, how his body curls toward mine even when he hates himself for it. It’s the satisfaction of knowing I can ruin him with a whisper and rebuild him with a touch.

That’s all it is.

That’s all it’s ever fucking been.

But with Nate… fuck, with Nate, everything gets messy. That phone call stripped the edge right off him. It didn’t just rattle him—it gutted him, yet I felt like I was the one getting skinned alive.

I’m not used to this feeling. This ugly, suffocating pressure in my lungs. It’s not protectiveness or some noble desire to save him from his past.

I don’t save people, I break them. I own them. But I need all of Nate. I need every inch of him—every fractured thought, every secret he’s still too scared to say aloud, every trembling exhale he hasn’t let me hear yet. I want it all. I deserve it all.

And whoever the fuck had their voice inside his head today, whoever made him fold in on himself like that, they’re in my way, and I don’t tolerate obstacles. Not when it comes to what’s mine.

If I have to use sex to hollow him out again, I will. If I have to pull him apart with praise and control, with soft hands and softer lies, I’ll do it. If I have to wrap myself around him like smoke and poison every other connection he has—fine. So be it.

But I won’t call this love.

I won’t.

Love makes you weak, it makes you desperate and leaves you vulnerable. I’ve spent my whole life learning how to cut those things out.

My mother tried to teach me that vulnerability was strength. That emotions were tools. That human behavior, as she always called it, could be weaponized if you knew the right angles. I took that lesson and warped it until I became the sharpest version of her design, and then I turned it on her.

So, no, this isn’t love.

He’s my best creation, my favorite experiment, and my most addictive game.

He’s the only person who ever managed to shake me off center—and I hate it, but I fucking crave it too.

The way he mouths off, even when he’s begging for my touch.

The way he breaks and still looks me in the eye like he wants to bite my fucking throat out.

I’ve never had someone like him.

And I’ll be damned if I let someone else break him before I finish the job.

The knock comes exactly when I expect it.

Not too soon, not too late. Right on time.

I take my time getting to the door, rolling my shoulders, smoothing out the tension in my fingers before wrapping them around the handle and pulling it open. And there he is, standing in my doorway, looking like he wants to be anywhere but here.

His arms are crossed over his chest, his jaw tight, the same stubborn set to his shoulders that I’ve come to expect from him whenever he tries to act like he still has control.

His green eyes flick over me once, assessing, but there’s something else there too—something guarded, something hesitant, something that tells me he’s still thinking about the phone call I interrupted this afternoon.

Good, because so am I.

I lean against the doorframe, tilting my head, studying him like I have all the time in the world. “You came.”

Nate scoffs, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “You told me to.”

I smirk. “And you always do what you’re told?”

His lips part, a retort already forming, but I watch as he stops himself, and how his fingers twitch against his biceps like he’s still not sure if he should be pushing me right now.

I like that.

I step aside, gesturing into my bedroom. “Get in, Pup.”

Nate hesitates for a second, just long enough for me to see that flicker of resistance, of whatever instinct he has left screaming at him to run.

But he ignores it. He steps inside, brushing past me without looking up, his body tense and wound too tightly as if he’s expecting something to happen the second the door closes behind him.

I don’t touch him yet. I let the silence stretch between us as I shut the door, watching the way his shoulders rise and fall with his breathing.

I smirk. “Relax, I’m not gonna bite unless you want me to.”

Nate finally looks at me with narrowed eyes, but I can see the weariness there. “What happened today?”

His expression hardens immediately. “Nothing.”

“Liar.”

His breath hitches, and I move even closer. “You don’t have to lie to me. You know that, right?”

His throat moves as he swallows, his lips pressing into a thin line. His body is still too tense, too closed off, but he doesn’t pull away from my touch.

Progress .

“Who called you?” My voice is lower now, coaxing, the same one I use when I know he’s already on the edge of breaking. “Who made you look like you wanted to disappear?”

Fear and revulsion flicker in his eyes and I watch as his walls slam up. My fingers tighten around his wrist. “Tell me.”

Nate’s jaw clenches. “It’s none of your business.”

Wrong answer.

I press in closer, dropping my voice even lower. “Everything about you is my business.”

His breath shudders, and fuck, I love it. He knows I’m right. He wants me to take this from him, to handle it for him, to pull it out of him so he doesn’t have to hold it anymore.

I drag my fingers up the column of his throat, feeling his pulse jump beneath his skin. “Tell me, Pup.”

His pulse is racing beneath my fingers, his breath uneven, his entire body coiled tight like a spring about to snap.

But he still doesn’t pull away. If he really wanted me to stop, if he really wanted to keep this thing buried deep inside of him, he would have left the second I asked him who called.

He wouldn’t be standing in my room, wouldn’t be watching me with that look, wouldn’t be breathing so fucking hard while I wait for him to give it up.

He wants to, but he’s still fighting it.

Still fighting me.

He glares, but his pulse tells me a different story.

“I know it’s eating at you.” My voice is soft, almost sympathetic, but we both know it’s just another fucking weapon. “I know the second you close your eyes, you’re going to hear their voice again, feel that sickness crawling under your skin, tearing you apart from the inside.”

He shudders.

“But you don’t have to hold it anymore.” My fingers slide up to his chin, tilting it up slightly, forcing him to look at me, forcing him to see what I mean when I say he belongs to me now. “You can give it to me, Pup. Let me take it.”

For a second—just a second—I think he’s going to.

His breath catches, his throat works around a swallow, his lashes flutter like he’s on the edge of giving in.

And then he snaps back. His body stiffens, his mouth pressing into a thin line, his hands shoving at my chest as he finally steps away, putting space between us like he needs it to breathe.

“You don’t own me, Callahan.” His voice is rough, but it wavers. “You don’t get to fucking dig around in my head like you own the place.”

I don’t react. We both know what just happened. We both know he was one second away from handing himself over to me, from letting me take it, from giving me that last piece of him that isn’t mine yet.

So, I don’t push. I just smile.

“Not yet.”

Nate breathes out, his jaw tightening again, but I can see it—he’s still thinking about my words, still feeling them wrap around his ribs, still carrying the weight of them everywhere.