Page 65 of Cruel When He Smiles (Sinners of Blackthorne U #3)

Nate

Liam’s still not breathing right, and it’s starting to piss me off—not at him, but at whatever the hell got him like this.

His chest is rising too fast, like every breath costs him, and his hands are gripping his thighs so hard the tendons stand out.

His knuckles are white, his jaw’s locked, and he’s just sitting there shaking like he’s not even in the car with me anymore.

And then he mumbles something—low, broken, almost like he doesn’t even realize he’s saying it.

“Not allowed to love—”

It’s barely audible, barely a whisper, but it slams into me—into my chest, into my fucking heart, and I don’t even think before I move.

I shift onto my knees, crawling across the center console, not caring that the space is cramped and the wheel digs into my back, not caring that Liam still looks too far gone, not caring that this is supposed to be his game.

Not tonight. Not right now.

I straddle him, gripping his face between my hands, forcing him to look at me. “Liam.”

He doesn’t respond. His gaze flickers, his pupils blown, his whole body tense, locked up, spiraling, falling into something he can’t stop.

But I can.

I press my forehead against his, forcing a slow, steady inhale and mimicking what he did for me earlier. “Follow me, Lover.”

His breath catches, and his fingers twitch. I drag my hands down to his throat, pressing just enough to make him focus, to make him feel me. “Breathe with me. Right now.”

His jaw tenses, but his next breath follows mine.

Slow.

Controlled.

I do it again, and so does he.

“That’s it,” I murmur, using his own tactics against him. “Good boy, Liam.”

A tremor runs through his body, his hands lifting, hesitating before gripping my waist tight. He’s here now—still spiraling, still crashing, but he’s with me.

“You’re not fucking going anywhere,” I tell him, my voice steady, one hand on his throat and the other on his chin, keeping him locked right here.

“I don’t give a fuck what they told you, what they drilled into your head, what they tried to turn you into.

You’re mine, Liam. And I decide what you’re allowed to have. ”

His breath stutters, his grip on me tightening and it borders on painful.

“Say it.”

He swallows hard. “Nate—”

“Say it, Callahan.”

His throat works beneath my fingers, his hands gripping my hips like he’s holding on for dear life, his eyes still so fucking wide. “I’m here. I’m yours.”

I press a kiss to his temple, dragging my fingers through his hair, and feeling his body finally start to sink. “That’s right, Lover,” I murmur, smirking slightly. “And you’re allowed to love me.”

He shudders, and then he breaks.

Liam kisses me like he needs it to fucking breathe. His hands are tight on my hips, gripping like he’s still trying to anchor himself. His lips are desperate against mine, rough and demanding, and I let him take what he needs.

This isn’t about control anymore, not for either of us. This is about staying together and keeping him here.

I drag my fingers through his hair, tugging slightly, grounding him the way he grounds me, reminding him I’m real, that I’m his, that he’s mine. He groans into my mouth with shaky breaths, but his body starts to relax. Not completely. Not all the way. But just enough.

“Liam,” I say against his lips, my hands sliding down from his hair to his throat, pressing hard enough to feel the way his pulse races. “You back with me?”

His breathing is still uneven, but he nods, his forehead pressing against mine, his deathgrip on my hips loosening slightly. “Yeah.”

“Good,” I whisper, dragging my thumbs along his jaw. “Now tell me what the fuck just happened.”

His throat works beneath my fingers, but he doesn’t answer right away and doesn’t even try to dodge the question. That’s how I know this isn’t just one of his mind games. Finally, he lets out a breath, closing his eyes for a second before looking at me again. “I don’t lose control.”

I arch a brow. “That’s a fucking lie.”

He huffs out something close to a laugh, but there’s no real amusement behind it. “Not like that, Nate.”

I soften slightly, brushing my fingers along his throat again. “What set you off?”

His jaw tenses. “You.”

I blink rapidly at that. “Me?”

Liam nods. “You make me want things.” His hands flex against my hips. “Things I was told I couldn’t have. Things I was trained to ignore.”

His voice is tight. Not angry or cold but confused. The same kind of confusion he showed that day at the lookout when he pushed me away. I knew Liam’s parents fucked him up and turned him into the person he is today. But seeing his trauma on full display like this hits fucking different.

“Who told you that?” I ask, and his throat works, his eyes flickering away, just for a second, just long enough for me to know. “Your mother?”

He still can’t meet my eyes, and that tells me everything, so I don’t press. Not when he already feels like he’s fucking falling apart. Instead, I just lean in, pressing my lips to his cheek. “She was wrong.”

His hands tighten on me again. “Was she?”

“Yeah, Lover,” I say, my lips brushing against his skin. “She fucking was.”

The pained breath he lets out breaks my heart and he presses his forehead against mine again.

I don’t move, and I don’t push. I just stay here because I know this isn’t something I can fix in one night.

This isn’t something I can undo with just a few whispered words.

This is something rooted deep inside of him, and for the first time, I understand.

I understand why Liam is the way he is. I understand why he’s so obsessive, why he needs to own, to control, to possess.

He was taught that the alternative was being nothing at all.

So, I just stay holding him until his breathing evens out. Until his grip on me loosens. Until the shaking finally stops.

And when he finally speaks, his voice is terse.

“Take me home, Pup.”

The house is quiet when we step inside.

It’s late, but not late enough for this kind of silence. Not late enough for everyone to already be in bed or for there to be no music, no voices, no usual bullshit that comes from ten athletes living under the same roof.

No, they’re awake and watching; I can feel it. Eyes on us from the living room, from the kitchen, from the stairs. I don’t look, and Liam doesn’t either. His gaze is locked on the floor, his shoulders tight, his whole body carrying a weight I know he hates.

He’s not used to feeling like this—exposed, open, fucking fragile. And it’s written all over him.

Killian watches us from the kitchen, leaning against the counter, one eyebrow arched, his head tilting like he’s studying Liam and trying to figure out what the fuck happened.

Sage is farther back by the stairs. His expression flickers between wary and concerned. For a second, I think he’s going to step forward, going to ask if I’m okay, if Liam’s okay, but I shake my head once, a silent not now.

He doesn’t push.

I take Liam upstairs without another glance toward either of them. He doesn’t speak—doesn’t throw one of his usual cutting remarks or try to deflect with that smug calm of his. He just follows me.

When we get into his room, I turn to face him, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. His jaw is tight, flexing every few seconds, and his hands twitch at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

It’s not the usual Liam Callahan energy—this isn’t the guy who always knows exactly where to put himself to stay in control.

I don’t bother asking if he’s okay, because that would be a joke right now. Instead, I strip off my shirt, tossing it to the side, then push my jeans down until I’m left in just my boxer briefs. I stand there, waiting, watching him, giving him the choice.

His breathing isn’t steady, it’s uneven, but finally he reaches for his belt. His movements are slow, like each motion has to pass through three separate approvals in his head before he does it. Then his jeans hit the floor and he kicks them off, but his shirt stays on.

I don’t say a word. I won’t push him because I know his shirt is one of his hard limits, one he hasn’t let go of, even for me.

But then my heart fucking drops when he reaches for my hands and places them on the buttons of his shirt. I search his face, my pulse roaring in my ears, my fingers freezing against the fabric. “Liam—”

He shakes his head once, barely, but his voice is quiet when he speaks. “I want to.”

Not I’m ready. Not I’m sure.

I think it’s the closest thing to trust he knows how to give. So, I swallow hard, my throat thick, my chest tight, my fingers shaking slightly as I slowly—so fucking slowly—undo the first button.

Liam doesn’t move and barely breathes. I go to the second, then the third. Each one feels heavier than the last, like peeling away layers of armor he’s spent his whole fucking life wrapping around himself.

When I push the shirt open, my chest tightens so hard it’s almost painful.

Scars.

Not just one.

Not just a few.

Fucking scars.

Thick and twisting across his chest, his ribs, his fucking stomach, faded but deep, like whoever did this didn’t give a fuck if he lived through it or not. Liam exhales, his left hand twitching at his sides, his whole body so fucking tense that it takes me a second to realize he’s shaking.

I hesitantly lift my hand toward him and he sucks in a breath. “Nate…” His voice cracks, and that’s all it takes.

I skim my fingers lightly over one of the thickest scars along his ribs. His reaction is instant—he lets out this low, broken sound, somewhere between a flinch and a whimper.

My throat burns because I understand. I understand more than I want to. He’s never talked about his past in detail, but I don’t need a play-by-play to know what I’m looking at. This is history carved into him with a blade and whoever created it made sure he’d never forget.

I let my fingers keep moving, reminding him I’m here. “Liam,” I whisper, but my voice doesn’t sound like mine. It’s lower, softer, but rough in the way it gets when something’s twisting in my chest. “You don’t have to—”

“I do,” he cuts in quietly, still not looking at me. “With you, I do. I need to give you this part of me.”

I step in closer until my chest brushes his, until there’s no space for him to hide in. My hand trails over another scar, then another, each one telling a story he’s not ready to say out loud. His breathing stays uneven, but his hands finally lift, gripping my hips hard.

“You’ve been carrying this alone for too long,” I tell him quietly. “You don’t have to anymore.”

His eyes flick up to mine, and for just a second, there’s no mask and no calculation. Just Liam, stripped down, human, and almost unbearably real. “You don’t know what that means for me.”

“Then show me,” I say, steady and certain. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

His chest rises and falls like he’s trying to laugh, breathe, and curse all at once, but nothing comes out. When his hands slide up my sides and his fingers skim over my ribs, it’s not to push me away—it’s to pull me closer.

For once, I don’t push for more than he’s ready to give. I don’t ask for details, don’t try to make him explain. I just stay there with him, in his space, in his silence, my hands over his scars like they’re something I can protect.

Because maybe I can’t erase what happened to him. But I can make sure he knows he’s not carrying it alone anymore.

He exhales slowly and then turns, shrugging the shirt fully off his shoulders. As the fabric slides down, I see ink running along his spine, black and stark against his skin.

Roman numerals.

XIII.

My brain immediately flashes to the same tattoo I’ve seen behind Killian’s ear.