Page 7 of Cruel When He Smiles (Sinners of Blackthorne U #3)

Nate

The next morning, I feel like shit.

Sleep never really showed up and just circled the drain. I lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster. My body’s still humming with leftover adrenaline, nerves twitching under skin that doesn’t feel like mine.

I don’t remember falling asleep. But I remember waking up before the alarm with my body already halfway dressed before my brain caught up.

The classroom is freezing, which doesn’t help.

I’m sitting in the third row of my Anatomy and Injury Assessment class, watching Dr. McKenna scrawl some shit across the board about ACL tears. Her voice is a low drone in the background while I stare down at my notes and realize I’ve written the same incomplete sentence three times.

Ligament damage is most often caused by…

I blink down at it, hand frozen around my pen, and will myself to focus long enough to finish the goddamn lecture.

Just long enough to stop thinking about Liam fucking Callahan and the words he said yesterday.

His voice still rings in my ears, and I hate that I remember the warmth of it or how close he stood.

And I really fucking hate that I can still hear her voice underneath it all.

Sweetheart. Nathaniel. Baby.

Jesus fuck, my skin crawls just thinking about it.

I breathe out a sigh while trying to concentrate, but the words on the screen blur at the edges.

I know this shit. I’ve been studying the mechanics of pain since I was sixteen, trying to make sense of what people do when they’re hurting.

How they mask it. How they push past it.

How the body betrays the mind when it’s stretched too far.

I can diagnose a dislocated shoulder in under thirty seconds. I can wrap a torn ligament with my eyes half shut. I can predict how long it’ll take for someone to heal based on the pattern of bruising and swelling on a single knee.

But I can’t fix this.

Whatever the fuck this is.

The class ends, and I snap my notebook closed, shoving it into my bag with more force than necessary.

Sage is waiting by the door because the bitch has my schedule attached to his own.

He’s already halfway through a protein bar, blond hair is sticking up in three different directions, and it looks like he overslept but didn’t give a shit.

“Hey, bitch,” he mutters around a mouthful. “You look ready to kill someone this morning.”

I shoulder my bag. “Thanks. You gonna join?”

He grins and falls into step beside me as we move through the hallway.

It’s crowded with students pouring out of lecture halls and labs, everyone checked out already, even though it’s barely mid-week.

Sage doesn’t speak again until we’re outside, the sun barely warming the chill clinging to the air.

“You sleep at all?” he asks.

“No.”

“You eat?”

I shoot him a look. “You my mom now?”

Sage shrugs, unoffended. “Nah. She wouldn’t have asked. She’d have psychoanalyzed your hunger and made it your fault.”

My breath stutters, and he notices, quickly speaking again. “Shit. Sorry. That was—” he pauses, grimacing, “—not helpful.”

I exhale slowly, my hands jamming into my pockets. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not.”

We cross the quad in silence for a minute where there are students splayed out on benches and grass, pretending the cold doesn’t bite. Everything looks too normal. Too bright. Like the world didn’t tilt yesterday.

Sage nudges my arm. “Wanna grab coffee before your next class?”

“I should go study.”

“Right. Because ignoring your trauma with textbooks has worked so well before.”

I glare at him. “You’re such a fucking—”

“Sweetheart, right?” He grins, and I want to punch him.

But I follow him to the student café anyway because the alternative is being alone with my thoughts, and I already know how that’ll end. Probably in the gym. Probably punching a bag until my knuckles split again.

Inside, the café is warm and half-full. People hunched over laptops, girls whispering in a corner booth, and that one guy who always plays TikToks loudly like he wants to die by public execution. Sage gets our regular spot by the window, and I collapse into the seat across from him.

He orders us drinks, as usual, then leans forward on the table, watching me with that steady, infuriating concern I never know how to process.

“So,” he says, brown eyes narrowing. “You gonna tell me what she wanted yesterday?”

My jaw ticks, and he notices that, too. He knows how I get after my mom calls.

I shake my head. “No.” Sage doesn’t argue or push, he just sips his drink when it arrives and lets the silence stretch between us. I sigh eventually. “She called to fuck with my head. What else?”

He doesn’t say anything for a long time as he watches me, one leg bouncing under the table, fingers twitching against his cup. I know he wants to hit something for me but doesn’t know what.

“She said some shit,” I add, “about how people confuse intensity with connection. About how lashing out doesn’t get you love.”

Sage’s expression darkens. “She think you’re dating someone?”

I laugh, but it’s harsh and humorless. “She doesn’t think I’m capable of that.”

He leans forward, voice serious. “You know she’s wrong, right?”

I don’t answer, because I’m not sure she is. She knows how badly she fucked me up for anyone else. She knows how much her version of love made me incapable of giving or feeling it in a healthy way.

“She always had a way of twisting things,” I mutter. “Made it feel like she was right even when she wasn’t, and if I got angry, it meant I was broken. If I pulled away, it meant I was disloyal. Every time I tried to breathe without her, she made it a betrayal.”

Sage doesn’t flinch. “You got out, Nate. Your dad saw what she was doing and got you out.”

I think about my dad and what he did. I don’t blame him for not noticing what his wife was doing to his youngest child; she made me lie about it. And he’s always tried to erase his guilt the only way he knows how: using his wealth. “Yeah. But sometimes it still feels like I didn’t.”

He nods slowly. “Because she built herself into you. That’s how it works.” I glance up at him and frown, but he shrugs. “She built her voice into your reactions. Into the way you look at yourself. Into the guilt you feel for feeling anything at all.”

My heart is beating way too fast as he tells me this, because he has no fucking idea just how close to home that hits. “When did you become smart?”

He flips me off. “I read books.”

I snort, and somehow that cracks the tension just enough to let air back in. Not all the way, but enough. My shoulders lower, and I breathe again.

“Anyway,” he mutters, dragging his sleeve across the condensation ring his iced coffee left behind, “frat duties are officially the worst part of my week.”

“Frat duties?” I raise a brow, but I know this is his way of dragging me away from the topic of my mom. “Thought you were done with all that.”

“I was.” He sighs and leans back, tipping his head against the booth. “But then Preston dropped out of school, and apparently, I’m the only other guy on the roster who can do basic math and not skim off the top, so guess who got roped into being treasurer?”

I choke on my sip of coffee. “Wait, you’re treasurer now?”

“Don’t look so horrified.”

“You still Venmo me in emojis and forget decimal points.”

“I round in vibes,” he deadpans.

I snort into my drink. “Yeah, this’ll end great.”

He groans and runs a hand through his messy hair. “I swear, half those trust fund assholes don’t even know what money is. They just swipe their dad’s card and hope it doesn’t decline.”

“We’re literally the same as those assholes, but what does that even mean for you?” I ask, not getting it. “You just, what, balance the books and chase people down for keg money?”

Sage snorts. “Basically. Except instead of keg money, it’s bullshit like catering for the alumni gala and trying to convince Preston’s new replacement not to invest in crypto with the social fund.”

I blink. “That’s what you get for looking responsible,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Why didn’t you say no?”

“Because the president’s dad plays tennis with both our dads, and I got volun-told.”

I laugh out loud, and he glares at me. “And because I’m pathetic, and I like the guy, I’ve now also volunteered to help Roman with his film gear whenever he needs me to.”

“Wait, what?” I frown. “Roman Bishop from the hockey team again?”

“Yeah,” he says with a sigh. “He texted this morning telling me he needs help setting up for some shoot. I’m guessing something got damaged in transport, and he needs an extra pair of hands to check the equipment before he books replacements.”

Man, I hate the athletes in that fucking house.

“Isn’t he two years older than us?” I ask.

“Yep.”

“So why the fuck does he always need your help?”

He sighs once more and looks at the ceiling for help before meeting my eyes again. “Because he doesn’t treat me like royalty even after finding out who my dad is. He legit just wants help and advice on his shit.”

I narrow my eyes. “So you’re telling me you got drafted into frat accounting and now you’re a camera gremlin for a guy who makes indie films about sad men in forests?”

Sage smirks. “Pretty much.”

I love him, and he’s my best friend but he lets people use him and it pisses me off, I swear to god. “You need to get better at saying no.”

“Oh, I can say no. I just pick the wrong moments to use it.” He stretches, glancing down at his phone. “Anyway, I’m really fucking hoping I won’t see Luca.”

I breathe out a sigh. Luca Devereaux. The bane of my existence since Sage came home one night looking like someone ripped up his dignity and told him to swallow. “That asshole still fucking with you?

Sage goes quiet, his eyes flicking up to mine before shaking his head.

His fingers drum against the table, light and rhythmic.

I can tell he’s debating saying more, but decides against it and mutters, “He’s been radio silent since I brushed him off instead of reacting to his bullshit.

I just find it fucking strange, is all.”

My jaw tightens, and Sage must see the look on my face because he tries to placate me. “Doesn’t matter,” he says, this time with a finality that shuts the door on the topic. “He’s just a dick, and I don’t have time to care. I’m not giving him rent-free space in my brain anymore.”

I know that tone and deflection. The way Sage pretends to brush it off as if it’s nothing when it’s clearly not nothing. I want to push, but I’ll drop it for now. Especially since Sage looks like he’s already at his limit for the day.

“Alright,” I say, sipping my drink. “Let me know if he tries anything.”

Sage gives me a dry look. “Why, so you can punch another star athlete and get sent to therapy again?”

I shake my head, hiding behind my cup. “Eat shit.”

He grins wider, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

The thing about Sage is, he’s similar to me in ways we don’t talk about. We both know what it’s like to keep secrets, to smile when you want to scream. There’s an understanding there; an unspoken rule that says I’ll carry your silence if you carry mine.

And right now, we’re both carrying a lot.

I stir the ice in my coffee, eyes drifting toward the windows where a group of freshmen are crossing the quad, laughing too loudly, tossing a football between them as if it wouldn’t nail some poor, unsuspecting girl in the face any second.

“Hey,” Sage says, his tone quieter now. “Are you good? Like… good , good?”

I glance at him. His brows are drawn, just a little. He’s not trying to push. Just asking. Checking in how he always does when things feel too quiet.

I could tell him about Liam. About how he gets in my head, the way his voice crawls under my skin like heat and rot all at once. About how he said I hadn’t told Sage, and how he was right.

But I don’t.

Because I don’t know how.

Because if I say it out loud, it becomes something real, and I don’t know what that means. Don’t know how to explain that my body reacts to a guy I hate. That it wants things I don’t understand. That Liam’s name feels akin to a bruise I can’t stop pressing.

So, I just nod.

“Yeah,” I lie. “I’m good.”