Page 34 of Cruel When He Smiles
Killian flips something in the pan again—chicken, I think. Garlic butter sauce bubbling around the edges—and nods in Damien’s direction. “Moore’s pissed because Noah’s coming to stay here until a dorm opens up.”
I arch a brow. “Noah?”
“His stepbrother,” Ryan’s grin sharpens. “And my best friend.”
I turn toward Damien. “Didn’t know you had a stepbrother.”
“I don’t,” he snaps before correcting himself. “I mean, I do, but we’re not—fuck, it’s complicated.”
Killian sets the wooden spoon down, and I can tell his patience is thinning beneath the surface. “I already said yes. He’ll be in the spare room, and it won’t be forever.”
“Jesus,” Damien mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “You didn’t even ask me. He’s my—he’s someone I have history with. You can’t just—”
“I can, because you don’t pay rent,” Killian reminds him smoothly. “None of you do anymore, thanks to me. You all just live here now.”
Damien’s lips thin. “That’s a low fucking blow.”
Killian wipes his hands on a towel before tossing it onto the counter, his blue eyes narrowed at Damien. “It’s not a blow, it’s a fact. You’re welcome to leave if you don’t like it.”
“Can we not burn the house down before the pasta’s even done?” Adrian, who is usually quiet, adds, stabbing a piece of bread with too much force.
I sit down slowly, dragging my chair out with the kind of deliberate grace that makes people think I’m calmer than I am. My eyes flick between Damien and Ryan, and I realize there’s more going on here than some territorial pissing match.
Damien’s red in the face, but it’s not just anger, and Ryan’s smile only deepens with every second he doesn’t speak.
“So,” I say, grabbing a piece of cut-up carrot from the salad bowl. “What’s the real reason you don’t want him here?”
Damien’s jaw flexes, and his eyes lock on the table. For once, he doesn’t have a comeback and doesn’t throw out an insult, a curse, or a deflection. He just stands there, breathing hard, hands clenched at his sides.
Ryan’s smile widens just a fraction. “Damien doesn’t do well with feelings.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Damien snaps, but the bite’s missing. It sounds automatic—reflexive and hollow.
I watch him carefully. “Is it really about Killian not asking, or is it about your stepbrother?”
The red creeps higher up Damien’s neck, crawling toward his ears. “Don’t fucking psychoanalyze me, Callahan,” he grits out, turns, and storms out of the kitchen, shoulders stiff, head down. The slam of the back door echoes a second later, and no one says anything for a moment.
Then Ryan laughs, like he’s been waiting for it. “That went well.”
Killian flicks sauce from the spoon in Ryan’s direction, and he yelps as it lands on his arm. “You’re an asshole for not warning him. He’s your teammate.”
Ryan shrugs. “I didn’t tell him to turn into a dramatic little bitch.”
“You baited him.”
“And you said yes to this without asking the rest of us.”
Killian shrugs. “I don’t need to ask. He’s staying. End of discussion.”
“You might want to talk to Damien when he’s not three seconds away from combusting, Kill,” Roman adds.
“I will,” Killian says, turning back to the stove. “After dinner.”
Luca leans back in his chair, tipping it onto two legs. “Being sober really makes me see how fucked up we all are.”
They all burst out laughing, but I watch Ryan’s expression carefully—watch the satisfaction curled into the edges of his smile, how he keeps glancing toward the hallway like he expects Damien to come storming back in and take a swing at him.
I lean my elbow on the table, twirling the glass between my fingers. “So, what’s the deal, really?”
