Page 71 of Cruel When He Smiles (Sinners of Blackthorne U #3)

Liam

I get to the café ten minutes early. Not because I’m trying to make a good impression on Nate’s mother—god knows that ship sailed before it even reached the dock—but because I hate giving her any advantage over me.

I pick a table in the corner with the best view of the entrance, the kind of spot that lets me see her before she sees me. The barista brings over a black coffee, and I sit there with my hands around the cup, feeling the heat seep into my palms as I go over the last conversation I had with Killian.

He hadn’t liked this idea from the second I mentioned it.

“You’re not going to meet that woman alone,” he’d said, leaning against my desk, arms folded in that way that meant his mind was already made up. “She’s manipulative, Liam. Your bitch of a mother was her hero, for fuck’s sake.”

“She’s not going to show up with a sniper rifle, Killian,” I’d replied, annoyed more at the implication that I couldn’t handle her than at the warning itself. “I’m not walking into a trap. I just want to hear what she has to say.”

“She doesn’t want to say anything to you unless it benefits her,” he’d shot back. “And when it stops benefiting her, she’ll turn it into something that hurts you. Or worse, hurts him.”

That had been the point where my jaw clenched hard enough to ache. “She already hurts him. I’m trying to change that.”

Killian had pushed off the desk, getting right in my space.

“You’re not invincible, little brother. You think you’re immune to people like her because you grew up with your mother, but that’s exactly why you’re not.

You walk in there thinking you’re two moves ahead, she’ll put you in checkmate before you even see it coming. ”

We’d stared at each other for a long second, neither of us blinking. Then I’d said, “I’m going alone.”

He’d said, “You’re a fucking idiot,” and walked out of my room.

That had been the end of it.

Now, I’m sitting here, with a coffee cooling, keeping my eyes on the door. Every time it opens, I scan the face, but it’s never hers.

Ten minutes past the time we were supposed to meet, I still told myself she was just running late. Fifteen minutes past, I started to feel the prickling edge of suspicion. After twenty minutes, I know.

She’s not coming.

I don’t need proof. I don’t need a text or phone call, or some vague excuse about a last-minute emergency. The no-show isn’t an accident—it’s a move. And I can feel in my chest that it’s not just a move aimed at me.

I take my phone out and open the tracker I installed on Nate’s without him knowing because I don’t trust the world around him. The little dot that marks his location pulses on the map, and my stomach tightens when I see where it is.

The stadium.

He has no reason to be there right now. No practice. No game. No meeting with the team. I stare at the screen for maybe three seconds before I’m out of my chair, leaving the coffee behind. I’m already dialing him as I push through the café doors.

It rings. Once. Twice. Three times. No answer. I try again while I’m crossing the parking lot. Still nothing.

A spike of adrenaline hits so hard that my hands tighten on the steering wheel as soon as I’m in the car. I don’t bother with music or even checking my mirrors like I normally would. I just pull out and head straight for the stadium, every muscle wound tight.

I don’t let myself think about what this could mean, not fully.

I’ve learned that thinking too far ahead when I don’t have all the pieces is just giving panic a free invitation.

But I can’t ignore the way my chest feels heavier with every block I pass, like I’m chasing something I can already feel slipping further away.

By the time I pull into the stadium lot, I’m out of the car before the engine’s even fully off. The main entrance is unlocked, and the emptiness inside hits me as soon as I step in. The echo of my own footsteps feels too loud.

“Nate!” My voice bounces back at me off the concrete walls, empty rows of seats stretching out in every direction. No answer. I head for the locker rooms first. If he’s here for some reason I can’t figure out, maybe he’s inside changing or grabbing something he left behind.

The locker room is just as empty as the stands. I check the showers, the training area, and even the equipment room. Nothing. No sign he was ever here.

I pull my phone out again, checking the location, but now it’s just… gone. No signal. Either the phone’s been turned off longer than I thought, or the battery’s dead, and I don’t know which possibility makes my chest tighter.

I’m halfway back to the parking lot when my phone rings. It’s Killian.

“Where are you?” he says the second I answer, his voice sharper than usual.

“Stadium,” I answer, my tone clipped. “Looking for Nate.”

“Stop.”

I blanch. “What?”

“Get in your car and come back to the house. Now.”

Something in his tone tells me everything I need to know. It’s not the words—it’s the way they’re precise, measured, and controlled in that way he gets only when something’s already gone wrong and he doesn’t want me to hear the crack in it.

“What happened?” I’m already moving, already heading back out the same way I came in.

“Just get here,” he says, and I can picture him standing in the kitchen with his hand braced against the counter, and his jaw tight.

“Killian—”

“Liam.” One word, sharp enough to cut. The kind of tone that tells me I can keep asking and waste time, or I can get in the car and find out for myself.

I end the call, and I’m moving faster, every step a push against the knot in my stomach.

If something’s happened to him—if she’s touched him—I’ll make sure she doesn’t get the chance to regret it.

By the time I pull into the driveway, my knuckles ache from how hard I’ve been gripping the wheel. The second I’m out of the car, I’m already heading for the front door. My focus is a single point—get upstairs, find Nate, make sure he’s breathing. Everything else can burn.

I shove the door open, step inside, and almost plow straight into Killian. He’s standing in the foyer like he was waiting for me, his posture loose but his eyes calculating, watching every micro-expression that crosses my face.

“Move,” I say, not slowing down.

He doesn’t. “You need to calm down before you go in there.”

“I’m calm,” I snap, even though we both know I’m not. My pulse is still hammering, and I can barely breathe with the weight of not knowing pressing on my ribs.

Killian tilts his head slightly, reading me the way he always does. “No, you’re about thirty seconds from tearing the place apart. That’s not what he needs right now. He’s apparently been here for hours, according to Ryan. I only noticed him because I went into your room to get something.”

That pisses me off even more. I take a step to go around him, and he mirrors it without effort. “Get out of my way.”

“Liam.” His tone is calm, but it’s the kind of calm that means he’s about to escalate if I don’t listen.

I pivot to the other side, and he blocks me again. The longer he keeps me here, the more my frustration climbs, snapping at the frayed edges of my patience.

“Killian, I’m not doing this right now!” My voice is clipped. “Either move, or I’ll make you.”

That gets the faintest smirk out of him, because he knows what happens when I try. “You’re not walking in there like this. You’ll spook him.”

I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want logic, I want Nate. My jaw tightens, and I push forward, but Killian doesn’t step back. Instead, he reaches up, smooth and practiced, and wraps his hand around my throat before pushing me against the front door.

The pressure isn’t enough to hurt, but it’s enough to make my breath hitch, to force my focus somewhere other than the chaos in my chest. His thumb presses just under my jaw, and his eyes lock on mine.

“Breathe, little brother,” he says, quiet enough that only I can hear it.

It’s the same move we’ve used on each other since we were thirteen, the only thing that ever works when one of us is spiraling too fast to think. It’s not about dominance, not really—it’s about control, the reminder that neither of us has to let the storm win if we don’t want it to.

I feel the edge of my rage start to dull under the weight of his hand. My pulse slows, my breathing evens out, and the sharpness in my thoughts starts to smooth. I’m not happy about it, but I let it happen because he’s right—walking in there like I was two minutes ago would’ve made things worse.

From the corner of my eye, I catch movement. The house isn’t empty. Roman’s leaning in the doorway to the living room, Ryan’s half-sitting on the bottom step, and I’m willing to bet more eyes are on us from places I can’t see. It doesn’t matter. This isn’t for them.

I exhale slowly, the sound shaky but controlled, and Killian feels it. His grip doesn’t loosen yet, not until I nod once.

“There you go,” he murmurs, his voice soft enough now that it almost feels like praise. “Now, you can go.”

When he lets go, I don’t waste another second. I take the stairs two at a time, ignoring the fact that I can still feel eyes on me from the living room. I don’t care. My focus is already locked ahead.

I push my bedroom door open, and the sight stops me for a second.

Nate’s curled up on the bed, knees drawn up, wearing nothing but one of my button-down shirts.

It swallows him, the sleeves hanging past his hands.

His hair is damp, strands clinging to his forehead like he’s just stepped out of the shower.

He’s not looking at anything. His eyes are wide, fixed somewhere past my shoulder, but he’s not fully here.

I quietly shut the door behind me and cross the room without saying anything at first. My chest tightens at how small he looks, folded into himself on my bed. I sink down beside him and reach out, my fingers brushing over the side of his face.

“Nate,” I say, soft enough that it barely carries. No response from him, so I try again. “Pup, I’m here.”

His eyes flicker once, but they still don’t meet mine.

I slide my arms under him and lift him into my lap, settling back against the headboard with him pressed against me. He’s tense, but he doesn’t fight it. My hand moves in slow circles over his back, the other cradling the side of his head.

That's when I notice the sharp smell of my cologne on him.

“It’s okay,” I murmur. “You’re safe. Whatever happened, you’re safe here with me.”

He’s still silent, but I feel the faintest shiver run through him. I tilt my head, pressing my mouth to his temple. “Talk to me, baby. I need to hear your voice,” I coax. “You don’t have to tell me everything, just… let me hear you.”

Nothing.

I let the silence stretch for a moment, then press another kiss to his hair. “You’ve got my shirt on,” I say quietly. “Looks better on you than it ever did on me.”

His breath hitches, so small I almost miss it. My hand moves up into his damp hair, combing through it slowly, careful not to snag. “Your hair’s still wet,” I murmur. “Did you shower here?”

A pause, then the tiniest nod against my shoulder.

“Good,” I say, my voice low and steady. I tilt his chin just enough that I can see his face, his eyes still wide but finally meeting mine. “You smell like me. Did you miss me?”

Another tiny nod. “Needed you.” He says it in such a small voice that my heart fucking shatters.

I swallow my anger down and hold him closer. “I’ll get you warm, okay? Just stay right here.”

He doesn’t look away this time, and that’s enough for now. My hand keeps moving through his hair, each slow pass meant to anchor him here, with me, until I can pull him back the rest of the way.

I want to press him. I want to find out who was at that stadium, why his phone was off, and why he’s wearing my shirt like it’s armor and drowning in my scent.

But I’ve been here before—in different rooms, with different people—and I know sometimes the fastest way to get answers is to give someone the space to take their time.

So, I just sit there, close enough that he feels the heat of me, quiet enough that he knows I’m not going anywhere.