Page 67 of Cruel When He Smiles (Sinners of Blackthorne U #3)

Liam

Nate doesn’t look at me the way I expect him to.

There’s no disgust or pity on his face, just straight-up rage. It’s the kind that burns steadily instead of flaring up and fading out. It’s the same kind of anger I feel every single time I think about his mother, and it gets under my skin in a way I can’t pin down.

My chest tightens, and I don’t know if it’s because I hate seeing it directed at me or because no one’s ever looked at me this way before—not with anger over what was done to me, but with anger for me.

That difference… it messes with my head.

Before I can figure out what the hell to do with that, he leans in and presses his mouth against one of the deeper scars along my ribs again. The contact is soft, too soft , as if he’s trying to take the pain out of it or change what it means—to make it something that doesn’t hurt.

A cold wave runs straight through me, and my whole body goes rigid. I don’t want it to, but it happens, and he feels it instantly.

He lifts his head, eyes locking on mine, and he doesn’t hesitate. There’s no flicker of doubt in his face, just that same fury and something else—something that feels too damn close to reverence.

Then his lips find another scar. And another. He whispers against my skin, but the words blur in my head. I can’t process them because I don’t know how to take any of this. I don’t know how to breathe through it.

His hands find my sides, guiding me back toward the bed, and pulling me down with him. My body moves on autopilot even though my mind’s still lagging, and I’m spinning out.

We’re both lying on our sides facing each other, when he says two words that hit me square in the chest. “Thank you.”

My head tips down, and he’s staring at me like I just handed him something valuable. As if showing him this part of me—this part I let no one see—was a gift. I don’t know what to do with that.

“You don’t have to thank me,” I manage, my voice coming out rougher than I mean it to.

“Yes, I do.” His fingers slide along my arm, grounding me the way I’ve always done for him. “You showed me something no one else gets to see. That means I get to keep it.”

My stomach knots. He’s looking right through me, and he sees everything. The parts I don’t hand over. The parts that don’t belong to anyone.

“And since you want to rip my mother out of my soul,” he says, dragging his fingers down my spine, “then I get to do the same to you.”

The breath I’ve been holding leaves all at once. I do want him to strip me down to nothing, to cut out the parts of me they built, to replace every scar, every order, every ugly lesson they left in me. I want him to carve his name into the place where they still exist.

His fingers drag down my spine again, and his hand lingers at the small of my back. “Let me do it, Lover.”

My throat’s tight and my chest feels too full. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

He arches one brow. “Don’t I?”

No, he can’t. I don’t even really know what he’s asking for. I’ve never been allowed to feel safe or anything except controlled. My whole life has been built on the belief that caring and love are weaknesses. And here Nate is, holding me, telling me I’m allowed to let him take that away.

I rake a hand through my hair, trying to get my pulse under control. “Why do you want to?”

“Because it’s mine to take.” His voice is steady and sure, like it’s not even up for debate. “Because they don’t get to have you, Liam. Not anymore.”

The breath that leaves me this time is stuttered, and he notices. His hand presses a little firmer against my back to remind me he’s still here. “I know you feel it too.”

I do. I feel every inch of what he’s saying. Every word sinks into my ribs, settles in my bones, and twists. His hand slides up, fingers brushing my jaw, tilting my head so I’m looking at him. “You trust me, don’t you?”

“You already know the answer to that, Nate.”

He smirks—not the mocking one, but the certain one. “Then let me do it.”

The only thing I can do is nod because I don’t have another move here.

He smiles at that, and I wait for him to realize exactly what he’s asking for.

If he really means it, he needs to know the truth; he needs to know me.

Not the version everyone sees, not the golden boy.

Not the well-controlled sociopath who makes people love him before he rips them apart.

He needs to know what I want to do to him.

“You think you want to own me, Pup?” I murmur, letting my fingers trail down his throat, feeling his pulse spike. “You think you know what wanting someone like me means?”

His breath gets heavier, but he doesn’t answer. So, I keep going.

“I want to shatter you,” I tell him, watching his face for any sign of hesitation. “I want to crawl inside your head and twist you so tight you can’t tell where you end and I begin.”

His eyes get darker, and I take his chin in my forefinger and thumb, making him look straight at me.

“I want to own you in a way no one else ever could. I want to be the only thing you think about, the only person you need. I want you so wrapped up in me that even when I’m not touching you, you still feel me. ”

His breath shudders, but his gaze doesn’t waver.

“I don’t do love the way other people do,” I whisper, running my thumb over his bottom lip. “It’s not soft or kind, and it’s not gentle.”

I lean in, brushing my mouth over his. “My love has teeth, Pup,” I whisper. “And I want to devour you.”

A shiver runs through his body, and then he smiles.

It’s not wide or smug, but slow and knowing while his eyes light up with glee. “Good,” he says, his voice low enough that it feels like it’s sliding under my skin. “Because I don’t want gentle. I don’t want a love that makes me feel safe in a soft way, Liam.”

My grip on his jaw tightens without me meaning to.

“I want you to break me,” he goes on, licking his lips. “I want you to ruin me. I want you to be the only thing I need, the only thing I breathe.”

The sound that leaves me is half a groan, half something I can’t name. He feels it, and I think—hell, I know—he understands.

“I want you to turn me into something that belongs to you,” he whispers, his eyes locked on mine and burning. “And I want to do the same to you.”

“You said your love has teeth? So does mine, Liam. And I want to sink them into every part of you until you can’t move without feeling me.”

My heart is thudding painfully in my chest, and my cock has hardened to steel. I’ve never been on the other end of devotion like this before. It’s never felt dangerous in a way that made me want to give in to it.

“I want to be the one who breaks you,” he goes on, his voice steady but darker. “Not to hurt you, but to remake you. To make sure no one else ever gets this. You’re mine, and I’ll make sure the whole fucking world knows it without you saying a word.”

It’s the exact thing I’ve always wanted to hear but never thought I’d let myself believe. And the worst—or best—part? I want it. Every twisted, consuming piece of it.

My hand slips to the back of his neck, pulling him closer until our foreheads are pressed together. “Then take it,” I breathe. “Take every part. But you’d better keep it, Nate. Because once it’s yours, you don’t get to give it back.”

His answering grin is sharp, his fingers digging into my sides like he’s already staking his claim.

“Wouldn’t fucking dream of it,” he says, his fingers tracing another line along my stomach, pausing on a scar just under my ribs.

His touch lingers there, as if he’s memorizing the exact shape of it, the way the skin dips unevenly before smoothing out again.

“Are they all from your parents?” His voice is quiet, but there’s an edge under it.

The question doesn’t catch me off guard the way it should.

I’ve been waiting for him to ask since the second I let him see me.

I meet his eyes, and don’t look away when I tell him the truth.

“No. Some are self-inflicted,” I say finally, watching his jaw tighten.

I don’t rush to fill the silence. I let him sit with it.

His gaze drops back to the one beneath my ribs. “This one looks recent.”

I drag in a breath through my nose. “I did that the day you cornered me in the parking lot after our first game of the season.”

He looks up, eyes widening. “Liam—”

“I didn’t know what to do with what you put in me,” I cut in. “That… anger, whatever the fuck it was. I couldn’t put it anywhere, and I couldn’t let it sit, so I bled it out.” I let the words settle because they’re ugly, and I’m not going to dress them up to make them easier to take.

Nate swallows hard, his expression unreadable now. “Has it always been like that for you?”

“Bleeding?”

He nods.

“Yes.” My answer is immediate, because it’s not a question I have to think about. “Always. Every mark you see on me is from pain; sometimes theirs, sometimes mine. But it’s all the same in the end.”

He keeps looking at me, but there’s a different look in his eyes now. He’s too quiet, and I’m about to ask what the hell is going through his head when he says, “Do you still have a blade?”

I blink at him, caught off guard by the sudden change. “Why?”

“Answer me, Liam.”

My jaw flexes, but I do. “In my dresser. Third drawer.”

There’s a flicker across his face then he slides off the bed with that same unhurried energy he always has when he’s already decided something, bare feet silent against the floor as he crosses the room.

I watch him pull the drawer open without looking back at me. He doesn’t rummage; his hand finds the small folding knife immediately, resting it against his palm. My brain finally clicks to what’s happening. He’s not taking it to hide it.

“Nate,” I say, not moving from the bed, curious despite myself.

He looks at the blade for a second, then glances back at me.

“You’ve got all this pain stitched into you, and every time you’ve bled, it’s been because of that.

Because of them. Because of what they built into your head.

” He takes a slow step back toward me, the blade still in his hand. “What if I replaced it?”

My brow draws together. I can already see where his head’s going, and it’s dark. Dark in a way that feels almost familiar. “Replaced it with what?”

His smirk is small, not meant to mock but to challenge. “With me.”

I tilt my head, eyes locking on his. “You’re telling me you want to cut me?”

“I’m telling you,” he says, coming to stand by the bed, “that I don’t want every time you see a mark on yourself to be a reminder of them.

Or of whatever pain they pushed you into.

I want it to be me. I want you to see it and remember that it came from something you chose. Something you let me give you.”

My chest rises slower, my breath dragging in. It’s not the first time someone’s offered to change the meaning of what’s under my skin—Killian did that once. But it’s the first time I’ve actually considered it. If anyone’s going to put something new there, I’d rather it be him.

I let my eyes drop to the knife in his hand, then back up. “And what exactly would that do for you, Pup? You really think you can overwrite years of conditioning with one act?”

“No,” he says easily, “I think I can start.”

It’s that certainty again—the thing that makes him dangerous even when he’s being careful. My pulse kicks harder, and I can feel the exchange in power between us. This isn’t him asking permission in the usual sense; it’s him inviting me into something that’s as much for him as it is for me.

He moves onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he kneels in front of me. “Let me put something on you that’s not theirs. Let me make a scar that doesn’t carry their voice, just mine.”

I look at him for a long moment, then reach out, my hand closing over the knife between us, but I don’t take it from him. “You realize if you do this, I’m not going to think of it as yours alone,” I tell him, my palm resting against the cool metal. “It’s going to be ours.”

His smirk deepens, his eyes dragging over my face. “Yes.”

That’s the last word he gives me before flipping the blade open with a steady motion. The metallic click cuts through the room, and my stomach tightens. He doesn’t move right away; he just studies me, waiting for any sign that I’ll pull away.

I don’t. I hold his stare.

His free hand lifts to my side, brushing over my ribs in slow passes until he finds the place he wants.

His touch lingers there before the blade kisses my skin—a cold, precise line before the heat follows.

My breath pulls in sharper, but I keep my eyes on him, watching the way his expression doesn’t falter.

There’s no hesitation in his hand, no rush either.

The sting blooms slowly before it settles into a steady burn, and I realize he’s not going deep. He’s carving with intention, dragging the tip just far enough to let red rise and bead along the cut.

“Eyes on me, Lover,” he says quietly, his voice rougher now. His thumb presses into the skin just above where the blade works, stretching it so he can finish the curve he’s started. The pain is clean in its honesty—nothing like the chaos that came before it.

A single drop slides down my stomach, and Nate’s eyes follow it. He sets the blade down on the mattress beside us without looking away, his fingers replacing cold steel with warmth as he traces the jagged shape of the scar he’s carved in my skin.

Then he leans in and licks it.

It’s not gentle. His tongue is hot, dragging the metallic tang of my blood into his mouth, and his groan is low, like he’s tasting something he’s been starving for.

My pulse kicks hard, not from the wound, but from the way he looks up at me mid-drag—Pupils blown, lips slick.

He just claimed something no one else was allowed to touch.

“Fuck—” My voice cuts when he closes his mouth over the mark and sucks lightly, pulling more heat into the sting until my breath catches.

He pulls back to speak, his hand still braced on my side. “That’s ours now,” he says, and there’s no teasing in it. “Not hers. Not his. No one else’s. You feel it tomorrow, next week, five years from now—you’re gonna think of me.”

I study him, the smear of red at the corner of his mouth, the way he looks like he’s daring me to call this anything but what it is. “And what do you think I’ll remember?”

He smiles, slow and sure. “That you let me rewrite you.”

My hand lifts to his jaw before I can stop myself, thumb swiping the blood from his mouth. I press it against his lips and he opens for me without hesitation, sucking my thumb in deep.

That’s when I snap.