Page 53 of Cruel When He Smiles (Sinners of Blackthorne U #3)

Nate

I’m exhausted in a way I can’t explain.

It’s not just the throbbing behind my left eye or the nausea that clings to me when I move too quickly. It’s not even the sore ribs or the headache that pulses through my skull every time someone breathes too loudly or flicks on a light.

It’s deeper than that. It’s the kind of tired that has nothing to do with the body and everything to do with how my mind won’t fucking shut off.

The way I’ve had to replay that moment—cleats slamming into turf, a body colliding with mine, my head hitting the bench hard enough to turn everything black.

After three days, painkillers can only do so much.

The nurses are worse than the meds, constantly coming in and out of the room, checking monitors, asking me the same four questions about where I am and what day it is, like I’m one wrong answer away from being lobotomized.

And then there’s Sage—hovering, pacing, talking too much and too fast, looking at me like he thinks I’m about to flatline just to spite him. The guilt in his eyes makes me feel worse than the injury ever could.

I love him, I do. But I’ve never wanted to punch my best friend more than I did somewhere between his third emotional check-in and his eighth insistence that I wasn’t “coping well.”

So when the door creaks open again, I groan, dragging the blanket over my face like I can will the world away with fabric.

“Sage, I swear to fucking God, if you ask me if I’m okay one more time—”

“Not Sage.”

That voice pulls the air from my lungs before my brain fully registers who it belongs to. I push the blanket down slowly, squinting against the fluorescent lights. Liam stands in the doorway, and fuck, he looks… different.

No fake smirk or cocky strut, but his expression is unreadable in a way I’ve never seen before. That usual lazy arrogance remains painted on his face, but there’s a crack in it right now. I can see it in the tension around his mouth and the way his hands twitch once at his sides.

My pulse kicks up despite myself. “You’re back,” I say, keeping my tone casual even though my heart’s already tripping over itself.

“Obviously.” His voice is calm. Too calm.

I shift a little, ignoring the sharp throb behind my temple as I drag myself higher on the pillows. “Did you miss me, Lover?”

His eyes darken, but he doesn’t take the bait. He doesn’t even smirk or say something cruel to put me in my place. Instead, he watches me with this quiet, calculated intensity that makes my skin prickle.

“Get dressed, Pup. We’re leaving.”

That… is not what I expected. I blink, caught off guard. “What?”

He doesn’t repeat himself and steps further into the room, his hands sliding into his pockets as if dragging a concussed person out of a hospital bed in the middle of the night is completely within reason. “You’re being discharged and you’re coming home with me.”

My throat tightens. “Liam, it’s late. And my frat—”

“No.”

The way he says it leaves no room for argument. Not loud or aggressive, and that’s worse somehow. It’s the kind of quiet that demands obedience. The kind that wraps around your throat and squeezes.

“I—”

“No, baby,” his voice softens, but it doesn’t lose that edge. “You’re not going back to Greek Row, you’re coming home with me.”

My face burns at his use of “baby,” and I open my mouth, trying to find some part of me that still functions. Trying to pull up that bratty defiance he always draws out of me, but it doesn’t come. His tone always flips off the brat switch in me.

Still, I try.

“You don’t get to just—”

“I do.”

That’s the part that does it.

The finality.

The fucking certainty.

He says it like a truth, like a fucking law.

I stare at him, but he’s already reaching for the hospital bag someone must’ve packed and put beside my bed without me noticing.

My name is printed on the side, and there’s a discharge form clipped to it.

I didn’t sign it, but I know Liam must’ve handled it.

He always handles shit when I’m not looking.

“You’re coming with me.” He doesn’t even glance at me when he speaks again, but the words are low and anchored in something thick with heat. “Because only I get to look after my Pup.”

Fuck me sideways with a barbed baseball bat.

My hands twitch against the blanket. It’s not just the words, it’s how he says them. The possessiveness, the promise, the threat, and the care. All of it, wrapped in that deceptively soft voice that always slides under my skin before I realize I’ve let him in again.

I exhale slowly, watching him, testing him. “And what if I say no?”

Liam walks toward me and leans down so close that I feel the heat of him. He cocks his head to the side, eyes flicking down to my lips, smirks while biting his bottom lip, and says, “You won’t.”

This fucking guy.

I don’t argue because how in the absolute fuck am I going to argue with sex on legs? It’s easier than pretending I don’t want to go with him.

The drive is quiet.

Liam’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel, and his jaw is tight, locked so hard I can see the muscle jumping beneath his skin. He doesn’t speak or look at me. He doesn’t even have the radio on.

And it freaks me out, because Liam Callahan is never this quiet with me.

By the time he pulls into the Sin Bin’s driveway, my head is already spinning—and not from the concussion. The silence overshadows the pain, the lingering nausea, and the pressure behind my eyes. It’s not angry silence, it’s calculated and intentional. He’s choosing not to speak.

He gets out and slams the door behind him before walking over to my side, opening the door and raising a brow as if daring me to comment.

I don’t.

Inside the house, it’s loud. Voices everywhere. The thud of footsteps, someone laughing too hard in the kitchen, a game playing on the TV. But Liam doesn’t pause to talk to anyone. He grips my wrist, then leads me through the house, ignoring the way the others stare.

We get to his room, he shuts the door behind us, nodding to the mattress. “Lie down, Pup.”

I stare at him for a beat just to be difficult before giving in and collapsing onto the bed with a groan. My body’s still recovering, but the worst of the pain is gone. What’s left is tension coiled tight in my spine and crawling across my skin.

He doesn’t push or touch me beyond what’s necessary. He brings me water, sets it on the nightstand, tells me to drink, and makes sure I eat something later before I have to take my meds. Then he disappears and returns with an ice pack for my head.

No possessive remarks, no twisted games, just care—and that’s what fucks me up.

The first night, I think maybe he’s just waiting for the right moment to snap. That he’s letting me get comfortable before pulling the rug out. But the moment never comes.

The second night, I wait for the tension.

The teasing. The kind of manipulative back-and-forth that usually ends with him fucking me into submission.

But instead, I wake up to him watching a movie on mute while I sleep.

Checking my forehead in the middle of the night when I’m too restless.

Telling me to go back to sleep in that quiet voice that used to send chills down my spine for a whole different reason.

By the end of the week, I can’t take it anymore and throw the glass of water he brought me. It doesn’t shatter, but it hits the wall with a thud, water splashing across the paint.

Liam doesn’t flinch.

“What the fuck is this, Callahan?”

He blinks at me. “You need to stay hydrated.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about!” I sit up fast, wincing as the movement sends another wave of dizziness crashing through me. “Fuck. Shit, that hurt—You’re treating me like I’m going to break.”

He tilts his head and has the audacity to look confused. “And that bothers you?”

“Yes.” My voice cracks. “Because that’s not what this is.”

He crouches in front me and his eyes don’t leave mine. “Then tell me, Nathaniel. What is this?”

My fists clench against the blanket. “You don’t do shit like this. You don’t play nursemaid. You don’t tuck people in and make sure they’ve had enough fluids. You’re not—”

“Not what?” He interjects, hazel eyes burning. “Not someone who gives a shit?”

I swallow hard. “Yeah. Exactly that.”

I need him to do something. Push me. Break me. Take me apart and put me back together the way he wants.

Because this?

This is worse. This I can’t fucking handle because I keep bracing for the hit that always comes after the caress.

Liam gets to his feet and leans in close, and grips my chin, but there’s no pain in his touch.

“You belong to me, and when something’s mine, I take care of it.

Even when it doesn’t know what to do with that care,” he says, running the pad of his thumb over my bottom lip. “So, you’ll take what I give you, Pup.”

My throat dries out again as I stare at him. Every bratty remark dying on my tongue when I see that look in his eye again—the one that promises either pain or care, depending on my actions.

“You think I want you fragile? Weak? That I like you this way?” His eyes darken, and his hold tightens. “No, baby boy. I do like you ruined, but only when I’m the one doing the ruining.”

There it is—the truth buried beneath the stillness. He isn’t trying to be good, and he isn’t trying to change; he’s just waiting for me to be whole again so he can break me all over.

And for the first time in days, I breathe. Because that is something I understand; that version of Liam I can take and handle. This soft, quiet, caretaker shit? That’s what scares me.

My eyes stay locked on his when I ask, “You gonna break me again, Lover?”

He gets fully on the bed and straddles my hips, and when he leans in, I feel his lips brushing my ear. His breath is warm when it ghosts over my skin, as if he wants the anticipation to settle in my bones before the words hit.

“When you’re mine again in every way that counts,” he murmurs, his tone low enough that it feels meant for my blood instead of my ears, “I’ll break you so thoroughly you’ll forget there was ever a time you weren’t mine. But for now, you will accept my softness.”

The shiver that runs through me is immediate, uninvited, and impossible to hide.

I feel his mouth curve in that infuriating half-smile against my skin, the one that says he’s reading me perfectly.

There’s no point pretending the heat in my chest is anger and nothing else.

He knows better, and I hate that he knows better.

All the frustration, all the waiting, and all the confusion burns away in an instant.

I let out a slow, shaky breath.

And I submit.