Page 47 of Cruel When He Smiles (Sinners of Blackthorne U #3)

Liam

Nate’s eyes shut again, lashes twitching against the bruised swell of his cheek.

His breathing is steady now, chest rising and falling with a rhythm that anchors me to this sterile room.

The lights are low, but the monitors are loud; mechanical reassurance that he’s alive, he’s breathing, and his heart is beating.

But the way he lies there, too still, too quiet…it’s wrong. My Pup is never this silent. Never this fucking small.

I sit forward, my elbows on my knees, the stiff vinyl of the chair groaning beneath my weight. I’ve been here too long and haven’t moved in what feels like hours. My neck aches, my jaw is locked from grinding it, and my fists are cramping from how long I’ve kept them clenched.

Because when he went down, everything inside me stopped.

It wasn’t just a bad tackle, or a hard hit. It was malicious, targeted, and deliberate.

The second that fucker, Josh Miller, lowered his shoulder and charged, I knew what was coming.

I was on the sidelines, too far to reach him in time, and all I could do was watch.

Nate had just cut left, a clean breakaway, and his back was exposed and vulnerable.

The hit landed with a sickening thud, his body folding around the impact, legs flying out as he was thrown sideways into the bench.

His head struck the edge of the steel bench.

The rest is a blur—my hands on him, blood already seeping from a gash above his ear, another forming at his hairline, the side of his temple swelling fast. He didn’t wake when I called his name.

His lips were slightly parted, and he was breathing, but his eyes didn’t open.

Not when I whispered. Not even when I threatened to lose my fucking mind.

I don’t remember the ambulance. I don’t remember who tried to stop me. All I know is that when someone reached for him, my fist collided with a jaw, and suddenly there was blood on my knuckles that didn’t belong to Nate.

And now I’m here, watching his chest move, and obsessively tracking each rise and fall like it’ll stop if I take my eyes off him.

I press a fist to my mouth, breathe into it, then let it fall to my lap. My fingers are trembling and there’s dried blood under my nails, probably his, maybe not. My shirt’s still damp with sweat; it’s the same one I wore on the field. I haven’t changed. Haven’t showered. Haven’t eaten.

None of it matters because he didn’t move.

And for one horrible, breathless moment, I thought I was watching someone die.

I lean back in the chair and stare at the ceiling, trying to breathe evenly.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to matter this much.

Nate is a brat. A smartass. A walking button I can’t stop pressing. He flirts to provoke, argues to distract, and fights like his pride depends on it. I wasn’t supposed to give a damn past the game. Past the control. Past the high of knowing I could make him bend.

But then he looked at me— really looked —and suddenly it wasn’t about dominance anymore.

And today, someone tried to take what was mine.

My fingers curl into fists again, knuckles pale, jaw tight enough that my teeth ache. I can’t explain this to anyone. I don’t even know if I can explain it to myself. This fear, this unholy surge of rage and helplessness—they don’t belong to me.

I wasn’t built for this. I don’t do emotional fallout, and I don’t spiral over people. I keep a leash on everything.

But this isn’t spiraling.

This is fucking grief.

Premature and unearned, because he’s still here, he’s still breathing—but it felt close. Too close. One inch the wrong way, and his skull would’ve cracked wide open. One second slower, and his neck might’ve snapped.

He could’ve died right there in front of me, and I would’ve had to live with that.

“Fuck,” I whisper under my breath, dragging a hand through my hair, fingers curling against my scalp until it stings.

His face is half in shadow, the cut above his brow taped closed, the left side of his head bandaged. A butterfly suture holds the skin near his temple shut, the area around it already an ugly purple bruise that stretches down into his cheekbone. The swelling has his eye almost shut on that side.

He took a hit no one should’ve walked away from.

But he’s Nate, and he always fucking stays on his feet.

Until today.

Until now.

I stand suddenly, the chair scraping harshly against the tile. My body needs motion, or I’ll lose it. I pace to the end of the bed, then back, breathing hard, dragging my palms down my face.

The itch to retaliate is clawing at me. I want to hurt the bastard who did this. I want to hear him beg. I want him to understand what it feels like to have something important ripped away in a single moment.

I saw Josh twist at the last second, lean into it with his shoulder down, all his weight angled right at Nate’s blind side.

He knew exactly what he was doing. He made a decision, and now Nate’s here—battered, unconscious, too still—while I’ve been going over every second of it in my head, dissecting it frame by frame until I can’t tell if I’m more furious at the asshole who did it or at myself for not getting to him in time.

The door clicks open behind me. I don’t need to look to know it’s Killian. No one else would dare walk in without knocking.

He closes the door behind him and leans his shoulder against it, arms crossed, gaze sweeping the room until it settles on Nate. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath. “He looks worse than they said.”

I turn slowly, keeping my voice even. “You read the report?”

“I read everything,” Killian says. “Especially when it involves you turning the field into a goddamn warzone.”

“I didn’t—” I stop. What’s the point? He already knows.

“You punched Trevor,” he says. “Broke his nose.”

“He touched him.”

Killian raises a brow. “He tried to check his pulse.”

“He grabbed him.”

“You were already in the ambulance when the EMTs took over. Don’t pretend you don’t remember.” Killian steps closer, voice quieter now. “You lost it.”

I clench my jaw and look away. “He wasn’t moving, Killian,” I whisper. “I thought he was dead.”

The silence stretches until Killian sighs and crosses the room. He stands next to me and watches me carefully. “You want my advice?”

I inhale sharply through my nose. “Not really.”

“Too bad.” He says, and his voice drops into something more serious. “You lost control today. Doesn’t matter if it was justified or not—everyone saw it. You’re Liam fucking Callahan. You don’t get to snap like some emotional wreck over a guy getting knocked on his ass in practice.”

My hands clench into fists. “It wasn’t a fucking accident.”

“I know that.” Killian shrugs. “But you let everyone else see how much it fucking mattered to you.”

I know.

I fucking know I let it show, and that’s not who I am.

I breathe in deep, forcing the tension out of my shoulders, forcing my fists to relax, forcing myself to pull the mask back into place.

Killian studies me for another few seconds, then nods once. “Good.” He smirks. “There’s my brother.”

Before I can form a full thought, the door swings open hard enough to rattle the frame, the sound cutting through the hospital room like a gunshot.

“Where the fuck is he?”

Sage storms into the room, his chest heaving like he ran the whole damn way here. His glasses are crooked, hair is a mess, his cheeks are flushed, and his brown eyes are burning.

There’s a tension riding his frame, a storm coiled under skin and bone, ready to tear through someone if they so much as breathe wrong. His eyes land on me and narrow with immediate rage.

I barely glance away from Nate’s vitals. “And here I thought Nate was the one with unresolved anger issues.”

Sage rounds on me fast, lips twisted in something half a snarl. “You want to joke right now?” His voice is sharp enough to bleed. “You want to stand there with your smug fucking mouth while my best friend’s laid out like that?”

He takes a step closer, his fists clenched like he’s ready to swing. I don’t move.

“You let this happen, Callahan. You were there. You’re always fucking there. What did you do when that piece of shit leveled him? What the fuck did you do while Nate was face-down, bleeding on the turf?”

I don’t blink. “I nearly crushed the fucker’s windpipe with my bare hands.”

His mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first. He blinks, chest still rising and falling fast like he’s struggling to catch up with everything crashing through his bloodstream. I’m sure he didn’t expect honesty or violence. Not from me.

Behind me, Killian lets out a low chuckle, his tone dry. “Told you he snapped.”

Sage’s eyes flick to him, brows pulling together like it takes him a second to process the sound. His face twists, some of the rage giving way to confusion.

I step toward him, lowering my voice. “I don’t let anyone touch what belongs to me.”

I see the second Sage realizes that whatever lines used to exist—whatever walls were up between me and Nate—they’re gone. That I didn’t just cross them, I shattered them. That I’ll fucking burn this entire school down if anyone ever touches him again.

He looks like he wants to break my face. His knuckles go white, his stance rigid with restraint, and for a moment, I wonder if he’ll actually throw a punch. Part of me wants him to. It would make this easier. Let him scream, swing, bleed. But Sage is smarter than that.

He storms past me, his shoulder brushing mine hard enough to sting, and drops into the chair next to Nate’s bed.

The same one I abandoned when I couldn’t sit still anymore.

He grabs Nate’s hand without hesitation, his thumb brushing over the bruised knuckles, holding on like he’s afraid Nate might slip away if he loosens his grip.

“Wake up, dumbass,” Sage mutters, his voice rougher now, stripped of the rage.

Killian snorts. “Yeah. That’ll work.”

“Shut the fuck up, King.”

Killian raises both hands in mock surrender and leans against the far wall, barely containing his amusement. I stay quiet, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the way Sage’s shoulders bow over Nate’s body.

Then Nate moves beneath the blanket, and his fingers twitch. Sage straightens so fast that the chair scrapes the floor. “Nate?”

My breath catches. I move closer instinctively, drawn in by the flicker of life under all the stillness. Nate’s brow furrows, and his lashes flutter. His body tenses slightly, enough that I know he’s starting to come around.

Then his eyes open.

Sage exhales like he’s been drowning. “There you are.”

Nate blinks slowly, his gaze scanning the ceiling first, then drifting to Sage. He squints. “You look like shit.”

Sage snorts, his voice hoarse. “Yeah, well, you look worse, so fuck you.”

Nate smiles faintly, slow and crooked, but it’s there. That stupid, tired, fucking beautiful smile that does something dangerous to my ribs.

“Fair,” Nate murmurs.

I move closer and watch the way Nate’s eyes flick to me, how his lips part slightly like he’s surprised to see me still here.

I don’t give him a chance to ask. “How’s your head, Pup?”

Nate’s breath hitches, and Sage notices. Then he swallows, blinking up at me. “Hurts.”

“Good.” I reach down, brushing my fingers against his jaw, tilting his face up slightly, checking his pupils. “Means you’re still alive.”

My eyes search Nate’s, checking for clarity, for signs of dilation, for anything off. They’re glassy and bloodshot, the whites tinged faintly red, but his focus is better than I expected. I brush a thumb over his cheek, careful not to touch the bruising.

Nate’s breath stutters.

Sage watches the whole thing, and for once, he doesn’t say a damn word. Because I know he sees the way Nate responds to me. How he doesn’t flinch from the touch he used to pretend he didn’t want.

His best friend now belongs to me, and there’s nothing he can do about it.