Page 171 of Cruel When He Smiles
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 groanswhen 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.
Nate
Thesmelloftheplace hits me first. It’s not rot or damp, not even that metallic tang of blood I’d been expecting. It’s cleaner than it has any right to be, with the scent of bleach and pine clinging to the air. It’s the kind of smell that burns at the back of your throat and makes your eyes water if you stand still too long.
There’s plastic sheeting everywhere. Hanging from the walls and taped over cracked concrete and boarded windows. It covers the floor too, layered thickly enough that every step makes a dull crinkle under my shoes. The sound feels too loud in the otherwise still air, like the whole room is holding its breath and waiting for something to happen.
She’s there in the middle of it all. Tied to a metal chair, her head is slumped forward so that her hair falls in her face. Her wrists and ankles are bound to the chair’s arms and legs, the cuffs biting into pale skin. There’s no movement, no sound, nor any sign that she even knows we’re here.
I realize then that I don’t feel fear or even disgust as I look at her. Nothing’s churning in my gut, no spike of adrenaline in my veins, no ice in my chest. It’s the first time in my life I’ve stood in front of her without the weight of nausea pressing down on me, without that old instinct to run or fold in on myself.
And it’s because Liam is here.
His presence is warm and solid at my back, a steady anchor against the cold emptiness in front of me. He doesn’t touch me, but I can sense the way he’s leaning in, close enough for his voice to slip past my skin and take root.
“Stay in your space and breathe for me,” he murmurs, that soft, dominant tone curling around every word. “You’re in control here. Every second, every choice—it’s yours. She doesn’t get to take a thing from you anymore, Pup.”
That voice does something to me that I can’t fully explain. It rearranges me and replaces the tremble in my limbs with precision. He has no idea how much it works—how the way he says it, calm but commanding, makes me believe it’s already true.
From the corner of my eye, I see Killian move. He doesn’t speak or even look at me as he crosses the plastic-covered floor with that controlled stride of his until he’s standing in front of her.
Without a pause, he slaps her across the face hard enough that her head jerks sideways, hair whipping over her shoulder. Then he turns on his heel and walks past me like nothing happened.
“Call me if something goes wrong,” he says, already heading for the door. His tone is casual, almost bored, but there’s an edge under it. The kind that says “wrong” has a very specific definition in his mind, it doesn’t end well for her either way.
I watch him go, the sound of his boots fading until the door creaks open and shuts behind him.
My mother blinks groggily, lifting her head as much as she can… then her gaze lands on me and her eyes widen. The gag muffles her words, but I nod once at Liam, and he moves past me. He crouches down in front of her and unties it, his lips curling when she immediately tries to speak.
“Try again,” Liam says, voice full of velvet mockery. “I love when people think they still matter.”
Her mouth opens, lips chapped, but she’s nothing if not practiced.
