Page 18 of Cruel When He Smiles
So, I just nod.
“Yeah,” I lie. “I’m good.”
Liam
Thepartyfeelslikestatic—loud, hot, pointless noise crawling under my skin. But I’m required to stay down here because this is the first time Luca has been sober at a party, and I have to act like I care, even though I don’t truly know how to feel that emotion.
But the second Nate Carter walks in, the static clears.
He’s wearing sin tonight. Tight black jeans that hug his hips, and a black long-sleeved crop top that leaves nothing to the imagination and everything to the teeth. My gaze snags on the ink curling along his side—a panther draped in ivy and roses, coiled and dangerous and beautiful.
His stomach tightens when he laughs at what Sage says, drawing my attention there without apology. Lean, sculpted abs ripple with the movement. Defined lines I’ve seen on the field when he wears compression shirts, carved by hours of midfield drills and punishing practices I’ve made him run.
I always go home to shower after practice, so I didn’t know he had a tattoo. It startles me how badly I want to touch it.
I’ve never felt like this before—want, in a physical sense. I understand power, control, and obsession. Lust has always been clinical to me, something I could fake for function. But now, I feel it in the pit of my stomach, curling like a live wire behind my ribs. Because it’s Nate. And Nate doesn’t just wear his defiance, he weaponizes it.
I’ve been leaning against the archway of the living room, nodding along to Thorn’s story about whatever chaos the hockey team caused last semester. I haven’t absorbed a single word. My eyes haven’t left Nate since he walked in, and my chest hasn’t stopped tightening.
He knows what he’s doing. He knows I’m watching. And still, he tosses his head back when he laughs, tongue running across his teeth with bored disdain, and Iwant. Not just control. Not just compliance.
I want him.
And that’s not part of the game.
Sage sneaks away first, and Nate watches him walk off, teeth sinking into his bottom lip, then turns and heads for the back patio. I know he needs air; that look in his eyes tells me the walls are finally pressing too close.
Perfect.
I wait thirty seconds, because I want him to think I debated it. Then I follow.
The air outside bites more than expected. Nate’s already got a cigarette lit, the tip glowing orange as he takes a drag. He doesn’t turn when I step out, doesn’t flinch. But his shoulders twitch almost imperceptibly. The tell is microscopic, but I catch it.
He knows it’s me; he always does.
I stop beside him, my gaze forward. The silence between us buzzes with something close to a challenge. His body languagereads confident now: chin up, spine straight, and one foot crossed casually over the other.
“You ditched the hoodie,” I say, my tone dipped in soft interest. “Brave.”
“Wanted you to see what you can’t have,” he says without missing a beat.
My jaw tightens, the response unexpected. He doesn’t even glance at me when he says it, just leans on the railing, casual as ever. But that’s not what rattles me. It’s the way his voice dropped when he saidyou.
Dangerous little brat.
“You’re not even pretending to have fun,” I murmur.
“Why would I?” he asks, his tone dry and as sharp as broken glass. “This crowd is full of idiots.”
“Then why show up?”
He exhales smoke, turning his head just enough for me to see his smirk. “To piss someone off.”
I raise a brow. “Did it work?”
He shrugs. “I guess that depends,” he says, lifting the cigarette to his lips. “Are you pissed?”
I laugh under my breath, leaning a little closer. “Not pissed, no.”
