Page 101 of Cruel When He Smiles
“You’re such a—” I start to say, but he presses another kiss to the base of my cock, then looks up with that fucking mock-innocent expression that I hate and crave in equal measure.
“A what?” he murmurs. “Say it.”
I glare at him, shaky and fucked-out, and whisper, “Sadistic bastard.”
He hums again as though I had complimented him. “That’s my good boy.”
And fuck—that makes me throb. It makes my mouth part. It makes me forget the part of me that ever said I didn’t want this. He sits back on his heels, staring at me for a beat like he’s studying something broken that he plans to keep.
Then he says, so quietly it barely cuts through the air, “You don’t need to pretend anymore.”
I look away. My chest is tight. I should say something cruel. Something that pushes him away and cuts this down before it gets too deep, but the fucked-up truth is, I don’t want to pretend anymore.
I want him to drag me under.
And I think we both know he already has.
Liam
AssoonasNateleaves, the house feels empty.
It doesn’t make sense; loneliness doesn’t touch me the way it does other people. I don’t crave company, or feel isolation like it’s some kind of ache. But right now, standing in the silence, the absence of him is a presence in and of itself.
I roll my shoulders, dragging my tongue slowly over my teeth as I exhale, pushing the sensation aside. I gave Nate exactly what he needed before he left—calm words and steady orders, instructions clear enough to quiet the storm in his head for the night.
He’ll spiral, I know it. He’ll stare at the ceiling and overanalyze every second of what we’ve done. He’ll lie to himself about why he let me in, about why he didn’t stop me, about why he begged for more when I was already in too deep. He’ll try to make it fit into whatever fucking narrative he’s been clutching since he got here—some story about control, about being untouchable, about not needing anyone.
He’s going to fail because I already broke that part of him. I didn’t just fuck him. I rewired him. And I did it gently enough that he still believes it was his choice.
That’s the real trick—making them think they handed it to you. But even knowing all that, even standing here with the satisfaction of ownership curling around my spine, I still feel the itch under my skin.
Who the fuck was on the other end of that line?
I need answers, but I can’t force them. Not with him. Nate’s the kind of boy who burns when pushed too hard. He fractures if you take too much too fast. And I don’t want him broken, I want him whole.
So, I do the only thing that ever steadies my mind when it starts pulling at itself from the inside out.
I go and find my brother.
He’s spread out on his bed, all lean muscle and casual lethality, flipping a knife between his fingers with practiced boredom. Killian King is violence wrapped in skin—my mirror and my opposite.
He’s the only person who understands the monster beneath my carefully constructed calm, because his matches it perfectly.
He doesn’t look up when I walk in. “You look like your favorite toy got stolen,” he drawls. “Let me guess. Carter’s gone?”
I don’t answer immediately. I drop into the leather chair across from him, letting my arms drape over the sides, and stare at the ceiling like it’s going to give me answers. “He needed to get some sleep.”
He flips the blade again and slams it into his nightstand, the thud sharp enough to echo through the silence. He finally looks at me, eyes half-lidded and bored, but I know better. He’s always watching. Always calculating.
“You let him leave on his own?” he tilts his head, lips twitching into something cruel and curious. “Getting soft, little brother.”
“Don’t start,” I mutter.
He grins. “I’m not the one who let his plaything wander off after handing him a goddamn breakdown on a platter.”
My jaw tightens, but I force myself not to react. Killian only pushes when he knows there’s blood in the water. I tap my fingers against the armrest. “Something’s off.”
His smirk fades enough to make room for interest. “With him or with you?”
