Page 69 of Cruel When He Smiles (Sinners of Blackthorne U #3)

Liam

The water is hot enough to sting when it first hits my back, and I stand there for a second, letting it run over my shoulders, watching the steam roll up into the air and fade before it can settle.

The spray hisses against the tile, catching on the smears of dried blood still marking both of us. It swirls in thin red ribbons at our feet, fading to pink as it chases toward the drain.

The sight should be jarring, but it isn’t—not after tonight. Not after the way Nate’s voice cut through every defense I’ve ever built or the way he looked at me when he said my pain belonged to him.

He’s quiet. Usually, that’s my role, letting silence work for me while he fills it with sharp words or that bratty tilt to his mouth. But now it’s him, standing under the spray with his head tipped back, water cutting down his face and dripping off his jaw.

His arms are loose at his sides, shoulders slack, and I can see the pulse in his throat slowing from the pace it had been pounding earlier. He’s calm, and for once, so am I.

No spiraling. No intrusive voice in my head dragging me down into the familiar pit of self-destruction. Just the sound of water, the faint echo of our breathing, and the heat seeping into my bones. I realize, slowly, that it’s because he’s here.

It’s the first time in longer than I can remember that I’ve come down from something like that and not been trapped in my own head. I’m standing in it instead, anchored in the present by the way his body moves in the spray, by the subtle turn of his head when he senses I’m looking at him.

And fuck me, he’s beautiful.

Green eyes so pale they almost look unreal when they’re open, framed by lashes most girls would kill for.

Skin tanned from hours on the pitch, the kind of natural warmth that makes him look like summer even in the dead of winter.

There’s a faint constellation of freckles on his shoulders, and lower, the black ink of the panther on his side catches my attention again.

Nate’s face is the one thing I can’t get out of my head, even when I try. That muted blend of his mother’s Korean features and his father’s Irish, sharper cheekbones, balanced by the softness of his biteable lips.

The slight tilt to his eyes that makes his stare even more lethal when he’s pushing back at me, the way his lips part just enough when he’s trying not to say something.

I’ve cataloged every detail without meaning to, and standing here now, watching him breathe in the steam and the quiet, I realize why.

I’m in love with him.

It hits me—in this small space where the sound of the water is the only thing breaking the silence—that I’ve been circling this for months.

That every move I’ve made, every calculated push and pull, every deliberate cruelty, has been leading me here.

And now I’m standing here in front of him, washing the last traces of blood from his skin, and I know it without hesitation.

It’s not the kind of love I’ve heard about in bullshit stories or seen in clean, bright-eyed couples walking across campus. It’s not easy or gentle. It’s messy and jagged and dangerous, the kind of love that brands itself into bone and won’t ever come out clean.

It’s mine, and it’s his, and I know if I told him right now, he’d understand exactly what I meant—because he’s the same kind of wrong I am.

I don’t even realize I’ve moved until I’m in front of him, close enough that the spray is hitting both of us now.

His gaze flicks up to mine, questioning but not guarded, and I reach for the bottle of shampoo without breaking eye contact.

My hands are steady as I pop the cap and squeeze a line of it into my palm.

“Turn around,” I say quietly.

He arches a brow like he’s about to argue, then thinks better of it and turns, tilting his head slightly forward.

The dark strands of his hair are heavy with water, sticking to the back of his neck and curling at the ends.

I work the shampoo into my hands and then into his hair, fingers combing through from scalp to ends.

It’s thicker than it looks when it’s dry, the kind that catches under my fingers and forces me to slow down.

Nate lets out a quiet breath, almost a sigh, and his shoulders loosen under my hands. I rub my thumbs along his scalp in slow circles, mindful of his still healing injury, the foam building until it slides between my fingers.

“You’re quiet,” he says finally, voice low enough that I barely catch it over the water.

“So are you,” I answer, rinsing the suds from my hands before working them through his hair again.

He hums, the sound vibrating faintly through him. “We don’t usually do quiet.”

“No,” I agree, watching the white foam rinse down over his shoulders, carrying the last faint traces of red with it. “We don’t.”

He turns his head to glance at me over his shoulder, his lashes heavy from the water. “What’s going on in there, Callahan?”

I could dodge it. I’ve dodged every version of this conversation my entire life. But I’m tired of dodging him. I rinse the rest of the shampoo from his hair, making sure it’s clear before I speak.

“I’m in love with you,” I say, and it’s so fucking easy once it’s out that I almost laugh at myself for not saying it sooner.

He turns slowly, water running down the sharp line of his jaw, his eyes locked on mine like he’s trying to figure out if I’m playing him.

“You’re serious,” he says, not a question, not a guess—just reading me the way he does when he knows I’m not lying.

“Yeah,” I say, and it’s steady, without hesitation. “I’m serious.”

I reach up and push the wet hair back from his forehead, letting my thumb drag briefly over his temple. “It’s not a game or a tactic. Not a move to keep you in check. I’m telling you because… you should know.”

His jaw works like he’s trying to find the right words and can’t. I don’t press him for them. Instead, I reach for the conditioner, working a small amount through the ends of his hair, untangling the strands with my fingers.

Nate’s quiet for a long moment before he says, “I don’t know if that’s supposed to make me feel safer or more fucked.”

“Both,” I answer honestly. There’s no point in pretending it’s anything else.

That earns me the faintest curve of his mouth, the kind that’s gone almost before it’s there.

He tips his head back under the spray to rinse the conditioner out, and I watch how the water slides down his neck, then over his chest, tracing the muscles I know as well as my own now.

I know every bruise I’ve left on him, every mark, every sound he’s made under my hands, but this—this quiet—is different.

When he’s done, I let my hands rest lightly on his hips, thumbs brushing the slick skin there. He doesn’t pull away. His eyes find mine again, and this time there’s no hesitation in the look in his eyes.

“You’re really not spiraling,” he says.

“Not when you’re here,” I tell him, and it’s the closest I’ve ever come to explaining what he does to me. “You keep me in the present. I don’t… want to bleed it out when you’re around. I just want to stay in it.”

Nate’s throat works around whatever he’s swallowing down, and his hands lift, settling on my shoulders, wet fingers curling slightly. Another realization hits me then: he’s the first person to touch my skin like this. And that… doesn’t freak me out the way I know it should.

I let the water run over both of us for another minute, washing away the last physical traces of the night, but the rest of it is still there—in the way our bodies are turned toward each other, in the words I didn’t take back, in the fact that I don’t want to.

By the time I’m done, the steam’s thick enough that the walls are dripping. I lean in, pressing my mouth to his—slower this time, no blood, no desperation, just a steady kiss that seals something I didn’t even know I was still keeping to myself.

He kisses me back, one hand coming up to rest at the side of my neck, fingers curling and it makes me feel like maybe letting him in won’t kill me.

But even if it does, I think I’ve already decided I’d rather go out this way.