Page 178 of Cruel When He Smiles
He turns to face me, slow as always, methodical, the way he moves when he’s about to ruin something or claim it.
“You know,” he starts, “most people wait years to do this.”
Every part of my body locks up, not visibly, not dramatically—but inside, I go still. His hand slips into his coat pocket and pulls something out. A black ringbox. Not a single word passes between us as he lifts it in front of me, resting it in his palm like it’s nothing. Like it isn’t a bomb about to go off in the middle of my ribcage.
“Liam…” My voice cracks before I can stop it.
“Don’t,” he says, cutting me off gently. That voice—the one that gets under my skin and rearranges all the parts of me that still try to pretend they aren’t already his. “Just listen.”
I shut up. I always do when he talks like that.
“You want me in ways that should scare you,” he says, steady as hell. “You want the part of me that’s violent. The part that would bleed out the whole fucking world if it meant keeping you. You want me obsessive. Possessive. Fucked-up and dangerous.”
I breathe in slowly, my chest tight, and my fists clenched at my sides.
“And you’re not scared,” he continues. “You’ve never been scared of me. Even when you should’ve been. You crawled into my space, into my head, and you never fucking left. I’ve tried to keep it under control. Tried to play this game by the rules people expect. But we both know I’m not built that way, and neither are you.”
He finally opens the box, and it’s not a traditional ring. It’s titanium black, thick and cold-looking, with a blood-red stripe embedded through the middle—thin but brutal, like a blade drawn across a vein.
My knees go a little weak.
“I’m not asking you to marry me,” he says, his voice dropping lower, closer, the wind barely carrying it across the inchesbetween us. “I’m telling you that I already own you. That this—” he tilts the box toward me, “—is just the symbol of something we already did the second you let me touch you like that in the basement gym.”
I stare at it, jaw tight, not because I’m angry or afraid, but because I feel like the fucking wind’s been knocked out of me.
Liam doesn’t say “I love you.” He says things likeyou’re mineandI’ll never let you leave.And the sick part of me—the part that’s always craved a different kind of belonging—feels the weight of those words more than any soft, sweet declarations ever could.
“You’re proposing,” I say finally, though my throat’s dry. “Like this?”
He raises a brow. “Is there a better way?”
“You didn’t even ask.”
“You would’ve said yes,” he replies, confident in that way that should piss me off but doesn’t. “Or you’d have tried to be clever and bratty and make me wait just to watch me twitch.”
He’s right. Fucking arrogant bastard.
“And if I say no?” I push, needing to hear it, needing to poke at him the way I always do.
He steps in closer, his chest almost brushing mine, and his fingers snap the box shut before shoving it back into his pocket. “You won’t,” he murmurs. “Because you need this as badly as I do. You want to belong to something, don’t you?”
He’s not asking a real question. He already knows the answer.
His hand comes up and grabs the back of my neck, thumb brushing the spot just under my jaw where he likes to leave bruises. His eyes are molten when they lock onto mine—heat, pride, and possessive violence all simmering beneath the surface.
“I want everyone to know you belong to me,” he says, voice a growl now. “Not just in the way I fuck you. Not just when you’reon your knees. I want it permanent. I want them to see the ring and know that if they even breathe in your direction the wrong way, I’ll gut them in front of you.”
My lips part and I inhale slowly. I want to say something smart, something biting, but nothing comes. I’m unarmed in this moment—stripped bare without even realizing he’d been doing it.
“I want you to wear my name like a brand,” Liam says, “because you’re mine. And I protect what’s mine with blood.”
He reaches for my hand, fingers brushing my wrist, but I grab his instead. Tight. I bring it to my chest, pressing his palm against where my heart’s slamming too fast.
“I don’t want flowers,” I say, my voice rough. “I don’t want diamonds or vows or some bullshit white wedding.”
“I know,” he says.
“I want obsession,” I tell him. “I want fury. I want you waking up every day terrified that someone will take me, and I want to feel the same thing.”
