Page 170 of Cruel When He Smiles
I understand now that he wants this chapter closed before he starts another year. He wants the last gift she ever gives him to be the moment he takes everything back.
I nod, lean in, press a kiss to his temple, and let him see it in my face—I’m already with him. There’s no hesitation in me. Just momentum.
“Stay here,” I whisper. “I’ll get Kill.”
I get up, pull on sweats and a hoodie while watching him, every inch of my Pup is still locked in that stillness that’s starting to look more like purpose. When I get to Killian’s room, the door’s closed, but the quiet hum of his bedside fan bleeds through the wood like white noise.
I don’t bother knocking. The door opens on slow hinges, and the room is dim except for the faint orange glow of a streetlamp bleeding through his half-shut blinds. He doesn’t lock his bedroom door because he trusts all the idiots in this house, and that’s saying a lot.
Killian’s sprawled sideways across the bed, one arm tucked under his head, the other resting near the knife on his nightstand—always close. His chest rises in a steady and deep rhythm.
I cross the room and lean in close to shake his shoulder. “Killian.”
His eyes slit open, and his hand flies to the knife on his nightstand out of habit, but he relaxes when he sees me. “What?” he rasps, still half-asleep but already clocking the seriousness in my posture.
“He wants to finish it.”
That snaps him the rest of the way awake. He sits up instantly, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, his face narrowing with that sharp-edged focus he saves for moments like this—where blood is a foregone conclusion.
“He’s ready?” Killian asks, no emotion in the words, just calculation.
I nod. “Yeah. He’s ready.”
“When?”
“Now.”
Kill stares at me, jaw set, then gives a single nod. “You sure?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t. You should’ve seen his face.”
He gives me an off look before he nods again, drags on a shirt and pulls on a pair of jeans in silence, grabbing his phone off the charger. “Alright. I’ll make sure everything is set. Go sit with him. Make sure he doesn’t start second-guessing it.”
I leave him there, phone already to his ear, and make my way back to my room. The air feels denser now, like the night has folded around us, aware of what’s coming. When I step inside, he’s still in the same spot on the bed, back against the headboard, legs drawn up. But now his eyes are on me, steady, like he hasn’t looked away since I left.
“Well?” he asks quietly.
I cross to him, leaning on the edge of the mattress. “Kill’s setting it up now.”
He nods once, and that’s it. No relief, no nerves—just acceptance.
Then I lean closer and brush my lips against his temple. “Happy birthday, Pup.”
Killian’s taillight cuts through the night like a pulsing red heartbeat, the kind you can follow without thinking, instinctively trusting it’ll lead you exactly where you’re supposed to go.
His bike—sleek, black, and silver, and more speed demon than showpiece—growls low and mean on the empty road ahead of us. Killian has always liked his toys fast, loud, and terrifying. Probably because he’s all three himself.
I keep the car far back enough that the wind coming off his tailpipes doesn’t bleed into my open window. Beside me, Nate hasn’t moved since we left. His body is turned slightly toward the passenger door, eyes locked on the blur of shadows and streetlights outside.
He hasn’t said a word, but it’s not the silence that gets me, it’s the stillness. There’s a detachment there, the kind that says he’s somewhere else in his head.
When I glance down, I see what’s keeping him anchored. My shirt hangs loose on him, sleeves pushed up, the hem brushing the tops of his thighs. And in his right hand, turning over and over like a prayer bead, is my knife.
He’s using me to center himself, and I know exactly what that means in a moment like this.
I keep my voice low, careful not to disrupt whatever balance he’s building. “You good, baby?”
His eyes don’t leave the road. “I’m fine.”
