Page 79 of Cruel When He Smiles (Sinners of Blackthorne U #3)

Liam

The sound of Killian lighting a cigarette behind me follows us out of the warehouse, but I don’t turn back.

He knows what to do; he always does. When it comes to cleanup, he’s efficient, brutal, and surgical in ways most people don’t understand.

I don’t need to see the way his boot kicks the chair, or how he’ll make sure the body is disposed of in a way that erases every trace of what happened. My focus isn’t on her. Not anymore.

It’s on the boy walking beside me, his hand loosely in mine, still stained with her blood.

The drive back is quiet. Nate doesn’t speak, but his fingers twitch every now and then, flexing like they miss the grip of the knife that ended her. I glance over more than once, watching the stiffness in his shoulders and the way his eyes stay on the window.

We pull up to the Sin Bin, and I leave the engine running long enough to scan the house.

No lights in the living room. No movement upstairs.

Good. The last thing I want is one of the guys catching sight of him like this—blood-streaked, eyes flat, shirt clinging in places where blood soaked through and dried on the fabric. They’d ask questions I couldn’t answer.

“Come on,” I murmur, slipping out and moving to his side.

He doesn’t resist when I open the passenger door. Just swings his legs out slowly and follows me, his hand sliding into mine again, like it’s habit now. It’s not possessive or clingy, but grounding; he’s still here, and so am I. That’s all that matters.

I keep a hand on the back of his neck as we move through the kitchen, steering him toward the stairs without needing to speak.

He stays close, head lowered, like he’s conserving every ounce of energy for just getting upstairs.

There’s a hint of copper in the air from the blood, and I know it’s on both of us.

I’m already stripping off my hoodie before we reach the landing.

Once we’re in my room, I shut the door, lock it, then pull him into the bathroom. The sight of blood on him coils something hot and protective in me—not because he looks fragile, but because he doesn’t. He’s steady, even now, and I want to be the one to keep it that way.

I lean in, gently kissing the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then the side of his neck. Nothing hungry in them. Just contact, warmth, and a reminder he’s not alone in this moment, no matter how detached he feels from his own body.

“Arms up,” I tell him, and he lifts them without a word.

I peel the shirt over his head, the fabric sticking slightly to his skin where it’s dried.

It lands in a heap on the tile, and I move to his pants next, pushing them over his hips.

He kicks them off along with his boxers, and for the first time since the warehouse, he actually looks at me.

There’s no fear in his eyes and no shame either. Just that strange, heavy quiet, like his mind is still in the room we left behind. I touch his cheek lightly, turning his face toward mine. “Stay with me now,” I say, my voice low and even. “That’s done. You’re here.”

His jaw tightens, but he nods. I step back and guide him into the shower, the steam wrapping around us instantly. The water hits his skin in warm rivulets, washing thin streams of red down the drain. I take the soap in one hand and start at his shoulders, working it into his skin with slow strokes.

I’m not rushing this. Aftercare isn’t about efficiency—it’s about making sure he knows where he is, who he’s with, and that he’s not carrying this weight alone.

I reach for the shampoo, squeezing some into my palm and lathering it before working it into his hair. My fingers massage gently at first, then deeper, using pressure in the spots I know ease him. His shoulders drop a little, and he exhales for the first time in minutes.

Once we’re done, I reach for the towel and wrap him in it, pulling him out of the shower and into my arms again. He clings for a second this time, and it’s enough to feel the crack in his detachment. He’s still in there; he just doesn’t know how to come back yet.

I dry him off and towel his hair gently, rubbing warmth back into his arms. He doesn’t speak, but I don’t need him to because his breathing has steadied and his pulse isn’t thrashing anymore.

As soon as I step away to grab clothes, he heads straight for my closet, pulling open the door, reaching for another one of my long-sleeved button-downs, and doesn’t bother with anything else.

Then he crawls into my bed with no hesitation. He slides under the covers, pulls the blanket to his chest, and curls into the pillows like the last hour didn’t happen. Like he didn’t end a life. Like my scent in the fabric is the only thing that matters now.

By the time I’m finished hanging the towels and killing the bathroom light, his eyes are already shut. I slip into bed beside him, the mattress dipping under my weight, and he shifts automatically, tucking himself against my side.

And then… he breathes.

One deep inhale. Then another.

Within seconds, he’s asleep.

Just like that. As if every demon he just faced drained the last of what he had left, and I’m now the only thing keeping him from slipping into the dark again. I wrap my arm around him, pulling him closer, hand resting at the base of his spine.

I listen to the sound of his breathing settle into a rhythm that’s all his. No nightmares. No thrashing. No whispers of her name chasing him down.

Just silence.