Page 80 of Cruel When He Smiles (Sinners of Blackthorne U #3)

Liam

I wake to weight on my chest and heat on my skin, the kind that only comes from another body pressed far too close. I peel my eyes open slowly, already knowing who I’m going to see, but still not prepared for how he’s looking at me.

He’s propped on his elbow, head tilted slightly, that ridiculous black shirt of mine slipping off one shoulder like he staged it that way. His hair’s still damp in spots from the shower, curling a little near the ends. And his eyes—fuck, his eyes.

They’re light. Not dulled like yesterday, not shattered like the hours before that. Just bright, almost unnatural—like someone took a highlighter to his irises.

I blink, and he grins.

“What?” I ask, voice still gravelly from sleep, though I don’t bother pretending I’m annoyed.

His grin widens, and he doesn’t move. “You snore.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You do. And you drool a little. You also said my name in your sleep, which was flattering. Creepy. But flattering.”

I move my arm, slide it behind my head, and lift an eyebrow. “You stared at me long enough to catalog all that? And yet you call me creepy.”

He hums, then shrugs. “You’re kind of pretty when you’re unconscious.”

I drag a hand down my face, shaking my head once, but I can’t fight the smirk that tugs at the corner of my mouth. I watch him, letting the silence stretch until I feel him squirm under it. His throat bobs when he swallows, and I catch the moment where he retreats inward.

“Seriously,” he grumbles, and when I don’t respond, he flicks my chest with a finger, his expression sharpening. “What?”

I raise a brow. “What do you mean, ‘what’?”

The pout forms slowly, tugging at his bottom lip like he doesn’t know it’s happening. He looks like someone who’s trying to be mad but doesn’t quite have the stamina for it anymore. It’s honestly kind of adorable. And that’s the problem.

My Pup killed his mother like it meant nothing last night, and is now wrapped in my sheets, mouthing off like he didn’t just hand me his soul while standing in a blood-slicked room.

It’s endearing in the worst way. Dangerous in all the right ones.

“You’re doing that thing again.” He sighs, and it’s exasperated, but the way his fingers move toward my wrist betrays the truth. He wants to touch me. Needs it, even if he won’t say so. “The whole gentle, concerned thing. I hate it.”

“You hate it?” I echo, my voice threading into the tone I know he melts for—silken, heavy with authority.

He hesitates, and I watch in real time as his body betrays him. His pupils dilate and his breath stutters. Then his lashes lower enough for me to know he heard the change, registered it, and felt the shift in control.

The brat in him bristles, but the submissive in him folds.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he mumbles, brushing his thumb over a spot on my bicep where he bit me the other night. “I just don’t want you acting like I’m broken.”

I push up slowly until I’m hovering over him, arms braced on either side of his head. His expression changes immediately—eyelids half-lowering, lips parting, pulse flickering beneath the skin of his throat.

“You’re cute when you’re trying to act like nothing’s changed,” I murmur, dipping my head low until my breath grazes his cheek. “But you don’t get to pretend with me, baby.”

He tenses right before he melts—a slow, subtle curve of his spine into the mattress, eyes softening like liquid behind glass. I let my voice drop further, past coaxing and into command.

“Last night didn’t break you, it rewired you,” I say, dragging my nose down the side of his neck, letting my teeth graze above his pulse. “And now you don’t get to play the brat who’s pretending nothing’s changed.”

He shifts beneath me, hands lifting automatically to my hips under the blanket. There’s tension in his grip, a tightness he’s not even trying to mask.

“You always do that voice,” he mumbles, breath shaky. “The soft one that makes me—fuck—you know what it does.”

“Mm.” I press a kiss to the spot behind his ear. “You mean the one that makes you behave, Pup?”

He growls under his breath and claws at my hips, but his mouth twitches before he can help it, betraying the hint of a smile. “Don’t call me that in bed.”

“Why not?” I ask, voice dropping further. “You beg for it when I have you pinned.”

His face flushes beautifully, his fingers curling into my skin like he wants to claw me open and crawl inside. He exhales hard, then locks his gaze on mine. “I don’t want to be fixed,” he says suddenly, his tone cutting through the quiet with sharp clarity. “And I don’t want you to be, either.”

My smirk fades at that. “Yeah?” I murmur, my voice barely audible now. “You like me toxic, baby?”

“I need you toxic,” he says, voice bordering on a moan as he arches into me. “Fucked-up and obsessive and dangerous.”

His honesty splinters through my calm. For a moment, I can’t breathe. Not because I’m shocked, but because I’ve never been given permission to want someone the way I want him. Not without shame. Not without being told I’m cruel, wrong, and too much.

But he wants it; he wants me like this. I reach for his face, threading my fingers through his thick hair and cupping the back of his skull. I bring him close, just enough that our noses brush, and I exhale against his mouth.

“Will you live for me, Pup?”

His whole body stills for a beat, the question settling heavy between us.

I don’t let him look away. I keep my eyes on his, making sure he knows exactly what I’m asking.

This isn’t about breathing in the literal sense; it’s about existing for me.

About the kind of loyalty that doesn’t bend or break. About never leaving.

His breath shudders out slowly, lips brushing against my skin when he answers. “I already do.”

The words settle deep in my chest, and I know I’ve been waiting to hear them without realizing it. It’s a vow and a fucking claim.

My hand tightens in his hair, my other hand sliding down to grip his side, nails digging in. I want it burned into him, a reminder of exactly who he belongs to. There’s a deep, satisfied thrum low in my chest as I take him in, every detail mine to memorize.

“You were made for me, Nathaniel,” I say, holding his eyes. “You were put on this earth to be mine, and I was made to ruin anyone who tries to take you from me.”

His body loosens under my hands, his fingers sliding into my hair, curling at the nape of my neck. His voice is barely above a whisper when he speaks. “Liam.”

Just my name. But the way he says it—like it’s a plea and a promise all at once—does something to me I can’t put into words. “Tell me, Pup,” I murmur. “Say what you are to me.”

His jaw clenches, and for a second, I think he won’t. But then his eyes drag back to mine, and submission crawls its way back to the surface, willingly this time. “I’m your fucking mess.”

The sound of it slams into me, heavy and satisfying, and I let my smirk turn sharp. “You ruin me,” I growl softly, “and I fucking love it.”

I slam my mouth to his and, and he lets me in, his hands fisting the hem of my shirt. I roll my hips once, slow and controlled, just to remind him what we are beneath all this pretending.

That’s the thing about Nate—he can mouth off, spit venom, bare his teeth all he wants. But he always ends up curled around me by the end of it, dragging my shirts out of my drawer, pressing his face into my neck when he thinks I’m asleep.

He needs to push because he knows I’ll never move, that I’ll always push back just enough to make him feel it, then pull him right into the gravity he craves.

And he is cute. So cute it drives me half-mad.

I lay down next to him and brush his hair back gently, thumb stroking his temple, and he lets out a soft sigh, eyes slipping closed. “Are we skipping class?” he mutters.

“Absolutely.”

“Are you gonna make me eat something?”

“Yes.”

“Are you gonna keep looking at me like that?”

“Always.”

He opens one eye, squints at me. “You know, if you weren’t such a manipulative bastard, I might actually say that was sweet.”

I grin. “You just did.”

He groans, dragging the blanket over his head dramatically. “I take it back.”

I climb under it with him, tugging it down enough to catch his mouth again. He tries not to smile, but he fails. His fingers twist in my shirt, pulling me closer until I can’t tell where he ends and I begin.

And beneath it all—the blood, the violence, the chaos—we’re still here.

College kids in a broken world, clinging to each other like lifelines we never asked for but can’t let go of now.

“Liam,” he murmurs after a beat, his voice muffled against my chest.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t treat me like glass.”

I press my lips to his hair. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Pup.”

We’re a mess. Toxic. Twisted. Too far gone to ever pull this back into anything resembling what people deem normal. We’re not built for pretty, for clean lines or gentle edges. We’re sharp corners and broken glass, held together by obsession and something so twisted it can’t be called pure.

But none of that matters, because this is ours.