Page 76 of Cruel When He Smiles (Sinners of Blackthorne U #3)

Liam

I wake with that crawl across the back of my neck—the kind of prickling awareness that doesn’t come from dreams or half sleep, but from something deeper. Instinct. It latches onto my spine, whispering that something in the room is wrong.

My eyes take a moment to adjust. The familiar warmth I always reach for isn’t there, but the bed’s not empty.

The sheets are twisted but not tangled; the space beside me is filled but distant. Nate isn’t curled into me like he always is, shoulder pressed against my ribs, hand underneath my shirt and over my heart.

He’s upright instead, knees pulled tight to his chest, the blanket hanging off his waist like he’d forgotten it was even there. He’s still. Too still.

I prop myself up on one elbow, watching him. His mouth is slack, eyes are open and staring straight ahead, wide but unseeing. It’s not panic or fear, but absence. He’s in that place again—some quiet, unreachable space inside his own head, and I hate how familiar it’s become.

“Nate,” I say, keeping my voice low, just loud enough to break through the silence that’s no longer peaceful.

No flicker. No reaction. No sign he heard me.

I reach for him, fingers brushing along his forearm. His skin is warm, tense beneath my touch, but he doesn’t startle or pull away. “Pup,” I murmur, leaning in closer. “Look at me.”

His head turns slowly, a delayed kind of movement, like the message only just made it to his muscles. When his gaze meets mine, it’s almost disorienting—those sharp green eyes are clear as glass, but detached.

Then he blinks once, his mouth parts, and his voice comes out calm. “I’m ready.”

Two words. Just two. But they land in my chest with the force of a sledgehammer. I sit all the way up, hand still on his arm, and study his face for confirmation. There’s no mistaking it. We’ve talked about this, and I promised I’d follow his lead. I’d wait until he said when.

I just didn’t expect it to be tonight.

“Are you sure?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

He doesn’t hesitate when he reaches under the blanket, finds my hand, and curls his fingers around mine with a grip that’s steady. “I want to do it tonight.”

“Why tonight?” I ask, then notice where his eyes are focused. I follow his gaze toward the clock on the nightstand, its dim green display cutting through the dark—1:15 a.m., September 13.

The thirteenth of September: His birthday.

I understand now that he wants this chapter closed before he starts another year. He wants the last gift she ever gives him to be the moment he takes everything back.

I nod, lean in, press a kiss to his temple, and let him see it in my face—I’m already with him. There’s no hesitation in me. Just momentum.

“Stay here,” I whisper. “I’ll get Kill.”

I get up, pull on sweats and a hoodie while watching him, every inch of my Pup is still locked in that stillness that’s starting to look more like purpose. When I get to Killian’s room, the door’s closed, but the quiet hum of his bedside fan bleeds through the wood like white noise.

I don’t bother knocking. The door opens on slow hinges, and the room is dim except for the faint orange glow of a streetlamp bleeding through his half-shut blinds. He doesn’t lock his bedroom door because he trusts all the idiots in this house, and that’s saying a lot.

Killian’s sprawled sideways across the bed, one arm tucked under his head, the other resting near the knife on his nightstand—always close. His chest rises in a steady and deep rhythm.

I cross the room and lean in close to shake his shoulder. “Killian.”

His eyes slit open, and his hand flies to the knife on his nightstand out of habit, but he relaxes when he sees me. “What?” he rasps, still half-asleep but already clocking the seriousness in my posture.

“He wants to finish it.”

That snaps him the rest of the way awake. He sits up instantly, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, his face narrowing with that sharp-edged focus he saves for moments like this—where blood is a foregone conclusion.

“He’s ready?” Killian asks, no emotion in the words, just calculation.

I nod. “Yeah. He’s ready.”

“When?”

“Now.”

Kill stares at me, jaw set, then gives a single nod. “You sure?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t. You should’ve seen his face.”

He gives me an off look before he nods again, drags on a shirt and pulls on a pair of jeans in silence, grabbing his phone off the charger. “Alright. I’ll make sure everything is set. Go sit with him. Make sure he doesn’t start second-guessing it.”

I leave him there, phone already to his ear, and make my way back to my room.

The air feels denser now, like the night has folded around us, aware of what’s coming.

When I step inside, he’s still in the same spot on the bed, back against the headboard, legs drawn up.

But now his eyes are on me, steady, like he hasn’t looked away since I left.

“Well?” he asks quietly.

I cross to him, leaning on the edge of the mattress. “Kill’s setting it up now.”

He nods once, and that’s it. No relief, no nerves—just acceptance.

Then I lean closer and brush my lips against his temple. “Happy birthday, Pup.”

Killian’s taillight cuts through the night like a pulsing red heartbeat, the kind you can follow without thinking, instinctively trusting it’ll lead you exactly where you’re supposed to go.

His bike—sleek, black, and silver, and more speed demon than showpiece—growls low and mean on the empty road ahead of us. Killian has always liked his toys fast, loud, and terrifying. Probably because he’s all three himself.

I keep the car far back enough that the wind coming off his tailpipes doesn’t bleed into my open window. Beside me, Nate hasn’t moved since we left. His body is turned slightly toward the passenger door, eyes locked on the blur of shadows and streetlights outside.

He hasn’t said a word, but it’s not the silence that gets me, it’s the stillness. There’s a detachment there, the kind that says he’s somewhere else in his head.

When I glance down, I see what’s keeping him anchored. My shirt hangs loose on him, sleeves pushed up, the hem brushing the tops of his thighs. And in his right hand, turning over and over like a prayer bead, is my knife.

He’s using me to center himself, and I know exactly what that means in a moment like this.

I keep my voice low, careful not to disrupt whatever balance he’s building. “You good, baby?”

His eyes don’t leave the road. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t sound fine in the way people use it to lie. He sounds fine in the way a man might before walking into a fight he’s already decided he’s going to win.

Killian takes a hard left, his bike leaning dangerously low before righting itself, and I follow, tires humming over cracked asphalt.

The area we’re in now is nothing but industrial skeletons.

Warehouse after warehouse, all steel and broken windows, the air heavy with the smell of rust and rain-soaked concrete.

The streetlights are sparser here, most of them dead, leaving the shadows thicker.

We pull into the cracked lot of a building that’s been abandoned long enough for weeds to break through the asphalt.

Killian’s bike is already parked by the side entrance, its chrome catching what little light there is.

He’s standing beside it, helmet in one hand and a cigarette dangling from his lips.

I shift into park, but don’t kill the engine yet. Instead, I turn to Nate, watching the way his eyes finally cut toward me, knife still turning in his hand. “One last time. I need to hear it from you, Nate.” My tone dips to the low cadence he . “Are you ready to take a life?”

He tilts his head, eyes locked on mine, and whatever he’s about to say, I already feel it like the shadow of a blow I know is coming. “I was ready the moment you said you’d be there,” he says.

The air leaves my lungs in a sharp exhale before I can stop it. That’s the kind of thing he shouldn’t be able to say without cracking me wide open. But here I am, standing on the edge of something violent and irreversible, falling harder than I’ve ever fallen in my life.

I force myself to breathe, to let that slow smile slide onto my face instead of showing him just how hard those words hit. “Then let’s give you your birthday gift, Pup.”

His mouth curves at the nickname, almost like he’s been waiting for me to say it. He slips the knife into his palm, holding it so the point rests against his thigh, and pushes the door open without hesitation.

When we step out, the cold air wraps around us, carrying the faint scent of oil and wet asphalt. Killian watches us approach, flicking ash from his cigarette, eyes scanning Nate briefly before landing on me. I know that look all too well.

“Father owns this entire lot,” he says, his eyes sliding to Nate, then back to me. “So, you don’t have to worry about this getting out.”

I nod, and we move toward the side door with Killian leading, his boots silent against the concrete. The metal door groans when he shoves it open, the sound echoing into the hollow darkness of the warehouse.

I turn to look at Nate, but he doesn’t break stride as he continues to turn the knife over in his hand.

Watching him like this—composed, dangerous, and carrying a piece of me—I know I’m not walking him toward something he can’t handle.

I’m walking beside him toward something he’s already claimed as his.

And maybe that’s what scares me most. That somewhere between the moment I promised to take care of this and now, I stopped considering whether or not I should be leading him here.

Now, I just want to watch him take it.