Page 52 of Cruel When He Smiles (Sinners of Blackthorne U #3)

Liam

The office smells like old books and the faintest trace of pipe smoke as I sit across from Dean Holloway. My posture is relaxed, my expression calm, and my hands folded loosely in my lap like I didn’t lose my shit in front of the entire soccer team yesterday.

He watches me over the rim of his glasses, fingers steepled in front of him. He’s quiet for a moment, studying me like he’s expecting to find something out of place. He won’t. I know how to fix things, and I know how to play the game.

So, when the silence stretches just a little too long, I exhale softly, tilting my head in a way that makes me look remorseful. “I wanted to apologize for my behavior yesterday, sir. It was unacceptable.”

Dean Holloway hums, nodding slowly, but his expression stays neutral. “Not like you at all, Callahan.”

“No, sir.” I shake my head, offering a small, self-deprecating smile. “I let my emotions get the better of me. Nate Carter is one of my best players, and seeing him taken down like that for no apparent reason—it got to me. I should have handled it better.”

He watches me a second longer, then leans back in his chair, nodding again. “Your track record speaks for itself. You’ve been a model student and an exceptional team captain, Liam. So, we’ll let it slide this time.”

I school my expression into something appropriately grateful, something thankful but humbled, something that makes him believe I won’t do it again.

Even though I will if anyone touches Nate like that again.

“I appreciate that, sir.”

He waves a hand, already moving on. “Good. Now, I believe you have practice to get to.”

I stand smoothly, nodding once more before leaving the office, my mask still firmly in place and my reputation still intact. After personally apologizing to Trevor for punching him and paying for his hospital bill, I head to practice.

By the time I step onto the field, the team is already gathering, their eyes flicking toward me, some of them cautious, some of them curious, all of them waiting to see how I’m going to handle what happened yesterday.

I give them what they want. I let out a slow breath, running a hand through my hair, letting my shoulders drop like I’m ashamed of myself. “I need to apologize to you guys, too.”

Some of them exchange glances.

“Yesterday wasn’t my proudest moment,” I continue while keeping my tone level. “I should have kept my emotions in check. I should have led by example instead of reacting the way I did.”

A few of them nod, looking reassured, the tension in their shoulders easing slightly. Then Adrian tilts his head curiously. “I mean, I get it. Carter went down hard and hit his fucking head on a bench. We all knew you two were close, but—”

“You ever seen what he does when I push him too hard?” I smirk, cutting him off.

The team laughs, and the mood shifts immediately. I roll my eyes and shake my head like it’s all one big joke, like I didn’t nearly commit murder yesterday, and I haven’t spent the past twenty-four hours gripping my rage so fucking tight my knuckles went numb.

“He’s a fucking menace,” I say, my voice dry. “And if anyone is going to take him out, it’s going to be me, not some second-string nobody who didn’t even turn up for practice today.”

More laughter and tension dissolving, and just like that, they let it go because I made them let it go. But there’s one thing I can’t let go of.

Josh, the guy who hit Nate, is not here. He hasn’t been here all day; in fact, he hasn’t even been at school, and no one knows why. No one can reach him, either.

I exhale slowly, forcing myself to refocus, forcing myself to push it aside for now. After practice, my phone buzzes against my thigh with the insistence of something I already know won’t be good. I glance at the screen without breaking stride.

“Killian.”

“Got something at home for you, little brother,” he says, and I can hear the smirk crawling up his throat.

I’m already angling toward the locker room exit, the need to move clawing under my skin. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” The smirk bleeds through his voice now. “Something you really want to see. Better hurry to the wine cellar… it involves your toy.”

I stop walking. The hallway stills around me, like the sound has drained out of it. My grip on the phone tightens until my knuckles ache.

Because if it involves my Pup, then I want to fucking know everything.

“I’m on my way.”

The hidden wine cellar smells of damp concrete and old copper.

Killian is standing off to the side, lit cigarette dangling from his lips, arms crossed, and head tilted slightly. He’s watching me with that lazy smirk that tells me he knows I’m about to lose my fucking mind.

There’s a chair in the center of the room with a guy slumped in it, bound and beaten, his face a patchwork of bruises and split flesh. One eye’s nearly swollen shut, blood is crusted beneath his nose, and his lips are cracked. His wrists are tied behind him, ankles lashed to the chair legs.

I don’t need to ask who it is. It seems like my brother did the dirty work of finding him for me.

“Now, brother,” I glance back at Killian and shake my head with a low scoff. “This is messy.”

He pushes off the wall and strolls toward me. It’s only when he takes the cigarette out of his mouth that I notice how bloody his knuckles are. “And you’re welcome.”

I arch a brow and step closer to the chair, examining Josh without an ounce of sympathy. “You could’ve at least tied a ribbon around him.”

“I considered it. But red clashed with the blood,” he shrugs like he’s doing me a favor. “Thought you’d want to unwrap him yourself.”

I circle the chair slowly, and I crouch in front of him, elbows resting on my thighs, gaze flat and unreadable as I meet his one good eye. “He conscious?”

“Give him a little slap,” Killian says, his voice bored.

“Hello, there, Miller,” I tap his cheek lightly enough to keep his attention. “You remember what you did?”

Josh gives a weak nod, followed by a low groan. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You tackled him,” I interrupt, my voice quieter than it should be. “You aimed for his ribs, and your shoulder drove into his spine. That wasn’t an accident.”

“I—I didn’t have a choice,” he stammers.

Killian folds his arms again, leaning against the edge of the table nearby. “Oh, here we go.”

I don’t take my eyes off Josh. “Everyone has a choice.”

He shakes his head, sweat and blood flicking from his temple. “Not when someone like that threatens you.”

I frown at that statement, because what the fuck? “Who?”

He hesitates, and Killian kicks the chair hard enough that the legs screech against the concrete, and Josh jolts, a strangled cry escaping his throat. “Tell him,” Killian says, his tone as mild as a weather report.

Josh looks at me. Regret drips from every line in his face, but I don’t give a fuck about that. “It was his mother.”

Everything inside me goes still, and my heart feels like it doesn’t beat for a full five seconds. The noise of the world disappears, and all I can hear is the sound of blood pumping behind my ears. A quiet, rhythmic reminder that I haven’t snapped yet.

“Say that again,” I murmur.

He licks his lips, flinches as the split skin stretches, and says it again.

“His mother. I think she stalked me because she knew everything about me, and who my parents are,” he says, sucking in a stuttered breath.

“She told me she could have my scholarship taken away and, fuck man, I was scared! I can’t lose this scholarship, man! ”

I breathe out a sigh, count to ten in my mind, then face the idiot again. “What exactly were you supposed to do?”

He looks at Killian, who is currently busy twirling a knife around, then back at me. “She told me to make sure he got hurt bad enough to need care. That’s all I know, I swear.”

“Liam,” Killian says my name in that steady voice he only uses when I’m too far under. But I barely register his voice. My vision tunnels, zeroed in on the piece of shit in front of me.

Something isn’t right. I already checked Nate’s admission records, and his mother’s name wasn’t anywhere on them. She wasn’t listed as a contact, nor was she the next of kin whom they contacted. She wasn’t even supposed to know he was in the hospital, per the request from his father.

My fingers flex against my thighs, and my body is buzzing with something lethal. Killian must see it because he steps back, arms crossing again and watching me like he’s waiting to see what I’ll do.

I inhale slowly through my nose, pushing down the rage, shoving it into a tight, controlled box—because I can’t afford to let it loose. Not yet. I tilt my head, my eyes locked onto the piece of shit in the chair. “How did she contact you?” My voice is deceptively calm.

“Private number,” he says quickly. “I didn’t know who it was at first.”

“And you didn’t think to ask why?”

“She knew shit about me and threatened my future! What the fuck was I supposed to do?”

“What a piece of work,” Killian drawls, sarcasm dripping from every word. “A real fucking visionary.”

I step back, shoving my hands into my pockets just so I don’t use them to break his jaw. “I’ll take care of him,” Killian says, his voice casual, like we’re discussing a fucking inconvenience rather than a man tied to a chair who just admitted to hurting my Pup on someone else’s orders.

My thoughts are a hurricane, violent and chaotic, every single one leading back to the same fucking thing—his mother.

“You should go,” Killian continues. “You’ve got bigger things to focus on, like finding out why Nate’s mother paid someone to take him out.”

I nod, but before I reach the door, Killian’s voice stops me.

“Hey, Liam.”

I pause, glancing over my shoulder. “What?”

He watches me with that sharp, knowing glint in his eyes. “You know what this means, right?”

I narrow my eyes. “Enlighten me.”

His smirk widens. “This might be it. The person who has that little piece of your toy you’ve been trying to get your hands on.”

I stare at him as that hits.

Nate is mine—his body, his thoughts, his obsession, every fucking part of him except one. That tiny, locked-up part. The part that freezes when his phone rings. The part that makes his hands shake when he answers it. The part that makes him go quiet in a way that doesn’t fucking fit him.

The part that’s not mine, but I want it.

I want it so fucking bad it burns.

Killian claps Josh on the back, making him flinch, then looks over his shoulder at me with that easy grin. “Go play detective, lover boy. I’ve got things covered here.”

I don’t argue with that and turn, putting the code in the keypad, pushing open the cellar door, and stepping into the hallway. I inhale deeply, and I force my muscles to relax and my rage to stay buried until I know exactly where to direct it.

I barely register the rest of the house as I move upstairs.

Music from the kitchen, the low rumble of voices, laughter from someone in the lounge.

None of it touches me. I shut my door behind me and go straight to my desk, hauling my laptop open before I’ve even taken off my coat.

I’ve known her name for a while but didn’t think she mattered.

Dr. Evelyn Carter.

The search doesn’t take long since women like her leave digital footprints a mile wide. Awards. Banquets. Donations. She’s curated an image that screams perfection—silk blouses and pearl necklaces, charity luncheons, photo ops at hospitals and youth centers.

She looks polished and controlled, the same way he tries to be—but her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

Ah.

There it is.

I recognize it because I’ve been trained to look for it.

Her entire expression is a performance, right down to the hand placement and the head tilt.

It’s the same expression I use when I’m baiting someone into trusting me.

The kind of smile that makes people feel seen without ever letting them see you back.

I know the type. Hell, I was raised by it. Women like her smile in public and gut you in private. They spin kindness into obligation, they weaponize concern, and they train their children to say “ I’m fine ” through broken teeth.

And Nate’s been surviving her his whole damn life. No wonder he clings to Sage like he’s the last solid thing in the world. No wonder he flinches when someone gets too close with soft words.

And suddenly, I know.

This isn’t just push and pull. This is a boy who was conditioned to submit to the wrong person, and now he doesn’t know what to do when someone offers control without cruelty. That’s what gets him. That’s what scares him—because I don’t yell, I don’t strike, and I don’t make demands.

I watch, I speak softly, and I wait for the parts of him to break willingly.

He thinks I want him on his knees because I like power.

He doesn’t understand that I want him on his knees because I want truth.

The kind of truth he doesn’t even know how to give yet.

The kind that’s been locked behind years of lies dressed up as love.

Now, I know why he freezes up when she calls. I know why he keeps this part of himself locked so fucking deep inside that even I haven’t been able to get to it.

And, for the first time, I hate being right.