Page 168 of Cruel When He Smiles
I close the door behind me, slow enough that the click is heard, and lean back against it for a second, watching him. I want to walk over and take him into my lap without any preamble, but this conversation needs careful handling.
If I’m too blunt, he’ll dig his heels in. If I skirt it, he’ll feel like I’m keeping something from him. I need him calm and in that space where my voice works like a leash instead of a wall.
“Pup,” I say softly, letting the sound settle between us before I move toward the bed.
He still doesn’t glance up when he asks, “Yes, Lover?”
I walk over and sit on the edge of the bed, close enough that my knee brushes his thigh. “Do you remember what you asked me the other night? When you said you wanted her gone?”
His phone lowers to his lap, his fingers curling loosely around it. “Yeah.” His voice is steady, not defensive, and I take that as my opening.
“I meant it when I said I’d handle it,” I continue, keeping my eyes on his so he knows I’m not offering him an out. “It’s in motion. She won’t come near you again, but I just need you to trust me enough not to overreact when you hear the rest.”
The smallest crease forms between his brows. “What rest?”
“She’s not… accessible to anyone else right now.” I keep the phrasing vague, but knowing he gets my meaning.
His lips curve—not into the bitter, sarcastic smile I half-expected, but into something darker. There’s no fear in it and no hesitation. “Where is she?”
I watch him carefully before I answer. “Killian has her.”
His smile deepens, and I realize it’s not joy, not relief. It’s hunger. “Then I want to be there when it ends.”
The words hit me harder than I’m ready for, enough that I have to take a second before answering. “That’s not what I was expecting you to say,” I admit.
He lets out a long sigh. “I’ve lived with her shadow my whole life. She’s been in every bad thing I’ve ever thought about myself. She’s the reason I—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head once. “If I can take her last breath, then I’ll finally know she’s gone. Not just out of sight.Gone.”
I let my hand slide up his thigh slowly. “You’re sure?” I say, though it’s not a question so much as a final check.
He nods, never breaking eye contact. “I’ve never been more sure about anything.”
There’s a part of me that wants to protect him from this, to keep him clean of the kind of dirt I’ve lived in my whole life. But that part is drowned out by the part that knows this is what he needs to end it. And if I can give him that, I will.
“Then you’ll have it,” I say quietly, letting my voice soften into the cadence I know calms him. “I’ll make sure it’s on your terms. And when it’s over, we’ll walk out, and she’ll never have the chance to touch you again—not even in your head.”
His shoulders drop, the tension leaving him in a way that’s almost imperceptible unless you know him as well as I do. “You promise?”
“I don’t make promises I don’t intend to keep,” I tell him, and it’s the truth. “But until then, you stay close. No disappearing, no taking detours I don’t know about.”
He gives me a mock salute with the hand still holding his phone. “Yes, Lover.”
I smirk despite myself, running my fingers through his hair before standing. “Get your things. We’ll go get some coffee.”
He watches me for a moment longer, that smile still tugging at his mouth like he knows exactly what’s shifted in me and is just choosing not to say it. Then he swings his legs off the bed and follows.
And I know, as sure as I’ve ever known anything, that there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him now. Not a single thing.
Nate trails after me, dragging his fee. It isn’t sluggish so much as stubborn, like he’s already decided he’s going to make me wait for him just because he can. He’s holding his hoodie by the hood in one hand instead of wearing it, the other hand still wrapped lazily around his phone.
His hair’s a little mussed from the pillow, falling into his eyes, and he doesn’t bother fixing it. There’s this look on his face—half-sleepy, half-smug—that tells me he’s in one of those rare moods where he’s both compliant and defiant in equal measure.
When I reach for my keys on the dresser, I feel his eyes on me. “You’re paying, right?” he asks, all mock-innocent, like we haven’t had this conversation a hundred times.
“Yes, I’m paying,” I say, rolling my eyes but letting the edge soften in my voice. “When have you ever paid for anything with me?”
He grins at that. “So, I’m your spoiled kept boy now?” I freeze for a second, and he clearly catches it because that grin stretches wider. “Don’t look so shocked, Lover. You basically treat me like one already.”
It’s the way he says it, the way he’s standing there with his hoodie bunched in his hand, hair a mess, wearing one of my older shirts that’s stretched a little at the collar from how often he tugs at it—it hits me in the chest in a way that’s so sudden and sharp I almost growl.
