Page 6 of Cruel When He Smiles (Sinners of Blackthorne U #3)

Nate

My skin still feels too hot, too tight, my pulse hammering at my throat as I shove through the main doors of the building and step into the cool air.

I should feel better now that I’m outside, now that I’m away from him, but I don’t.

The tension is still there, coiled and waiting, as if I’m bracing for an impact that hasn’t come yet.

I just need to get back to the frat. Get inside, get a drink, and let Sage distract me with whatever dumb shit he’s gotten himself into today. Something normal. Something that makes sense.

I reach into my pocket for my phone, already planning to text Sage and tell him to get the tequila ready, when my screen lights up with a call from a number I’ve memorized and absolutely hate.

My fingers go numb. My pulse slows, then slams back into my ribs, and my entire body locks up so fast it makes me dizzy.

For a second, I just stare at the screen. I haven’t spoken to her in months and haven’t seen her in years. When I’m back home, I stay at my apartment, at Blackthorne, I’m at the frat. I keep my distance from her at all times.

And yet, she still calls.

The logical thing to do would be to let it ring out. Ignore it. Pretend I didn’t see it, pretend I was busy, pretend I didn’t feel my entire body react like it always does when she decides to insert herself into my life.

But if I ignore it, she’ll just call again.

And again.

And again .

I clench my jaw and press accept, forcing my lungs to work properly, forcing my fingers to move as I slide my thumb over the screen and bring the phone to my ear. My voice is tight when I answer. “Yeah?”

“Sweetheart,” she says. I hate that fucking word and how smoothly it comes out. As if she hasn’t made my entire existence something I have to escape. “It’s been too long. You never call.”

I swallow hard, my fingers tightening around my phone, my other hand flexing at my side. “I’m not allowed to,” I say, my voice clipped.

“Oh, nonsense,” she laughs softly, unbothered by the literal protection order against her. “You’re always busy these days.”

Because I stay as far the fuck away from you as possible.

I can hear the smile in her voice. The warmth, the softness, the way she speaks as though we have a normal relationship, and she’s just checking in on her son.

It makes me feel fucking sick.

I force my feet to move again, taking long, steady strides down the steps, like walking will make this conversation go faster. “Yeah. Classes, soccer. Same shit as always.”

She laughs lightly, and I hate that too. “I’m sure you’re excelling,” she says, voice full of practiced affection. She loves brushing past the fact that she perfected the art of making me feel like absolutely fucking nothing my entire life. “You always were so determined.”

My grip tightens on the phone. I breathe in through my nose, slow and steady, keeping my voice even. “Yeah, well. That’s why I got in.”

She sighs; the sound is soft and airy, like she’s reminiscing about something I don’t want to remember. “Just like your father.”

I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to stand here, listening to her voice, feeling my chest tighten, feeling the old weight of everything she is pressing down on me from a fucking phone call.

I want to fucking vomit. How does she still have this grip on me?

“You haven’t called in so long. I was starting to wonder if you’d forgotten about your poor mother.”

I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches. Poor mother.

That’s how she plays it—every time. Sweet.

Wounded. Making me out to be the villain in some fantasy she’s scripted.

When she was the one who turned gaslighting into a fucking artform and used it to twist my head until I didn’t know what was real anymore.

“I’ve just been busy,” I say again, my tone hollow and flat. My voice doesn’t even sound like mine. It sounds like the boy she used to talk circles around.

“That’s no excuse, Nathaniel.”

And there it is. Nathaniel. The name she only uses when she’s feeling self-righteous. When she wants to remind me that she gave me my name and it gives her ownership.

I close my eyes for a second, just one breath, one blink of darkness. I can feel it happening again—that nauseating shift. The way she pulls me back into the past with a single word. The way the ground tilts beneath me, even though I’m not ten anymore and she shouldn’t be able to touch me here.

There’s a beat of silence. A pause so heavy it rings. Then, just as I expect, her voice softens even more. “Baby… are you alright?”

I don’t want to be called that.

I never want to hear that word from her again. It wasn’t endearing when I was a kid, and it sure as hell isn’t now. It’s a leash, a trigger and a trap dressed up in sentiment. That’s what she does best—makes poison sound like love.

“I’m fine,” I say. Too fast. Too fucking clipped.

“You don’t sound fine.”

“I’m just tired.”

She hums that knowing therapist hum. The one she used on clients, then used on me. I know it because I’ve studied it. Learned how to replicate it. Learned how to fake normal the way she taught me—even if I didn’t realize what she was doing until way too late.

“I read an article the other day,” she says lightly, like we’re just chatting. “It was about trauma bonding. About how sometimes we confuse intensity with connection. Isn’t that fascinating?”

I don’t answer, and she keeps going, soft, sweet. Dangerous. “Sometimes, people lash out when they’re scared. Sometimes, they get close to the wrong people just to feel something. But that never ends well, does it, sweetheart?”

“I should go,” I say. “I’ve got training.”

“Nathaniel,” her voice is still soft, but it sharpens at the edges, gets firmer—less mother, more therapist. More controlling. “Don’t run away from me again.”

My vision pulses, a dull ache pressing behind my eyes. I blink hard and force a laugh. “Relax, it’s just training.”

“I worry about you.”

No, you don’t. You worry about losing me. About not being able to sink your teeth in anymore. About the narrative spinning out of your hands.

I make my voice light, playful even. A tone she’s trained me to use when I want to avoid a fight. “I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Nathaniel—”

But I hang up before she can finish.

The second the line goes dead, I feel the wave of nausea, the tremble in my fingers, the buzz in my ears.

I pocket the phone and force myself to move again, but everything’s fucked now.

The cold doesn’t help. The walk back to my car doesn’t help.

I feel like I’m wearing someone else’s skin—peeled off layers just to survive that call, and now I’m raw underneath.

When I reach my car, I yank the door open too hard, then slam it shut behind me. My hands grip the steering wheel as I sit there, trying to breathe, trying to pull myself back together.

I don’t cry or scream. I just sit in the silence and feel the weight of her settle into my chest like it always does. It’s not supposed to hit this hard anymore. She’s been gone for years. I’ve built my life without her. I’ve made myself into something she can’t touch.

But one phone call and I’m that kid again—trying to please her, trying to argue with her, and trying to escape her all at the same time. I fucking hate it. I hate that she still gets to me. Hate that I can still hear her voice in my head saying my name with that poison-sweet tone.

Hate that I can’t even bring myself to change my number.

I shove the keys in the ignition and gun the engine, peeling out of the lot like speed will shake her off me.

By the time I pull up in front of the frat, my hands are still trembling. The house is the same as always—loud music, laughter spilling through the windows, someone throwing a football on the lawn. Normal. Safe. Controlled chaos. My world.

I slam the car door behind me and stalk toward the house.

Sage is on the porch, drink in hand, laughing at something one of our brothers just said. He sees me coming, and his smile fades immediately. “Nate—?”

I shake my head. “Not now.”

He doesn’t push, but he tosses his drink aside and follows me in, footsteps silent.

My anchor. I don’t say anything until we’re upstairs in my room and the door is shut.

Even then, I don’t look at him. I just lean back against the wall, fists clenched at my sides, breathing like I’ve just run miles.

“I got a call,” I say, and my voice cracks.

Sage doesn’t ask who. He doesn’t need to. Instead, he walks over and sinks down onto the bed, nodding once. “Tequila or silence?”

My throat tightens. “Both.”