Page 7 of Cruel When He Smiles
“Nice party,” he says instead.
“You weren’t invited.”
“It’s an open party, Pup.”
I glance over at him, and—fuck—he looks good. Of course he does. He always does. Thick and wavy brown hair that’s effortlessly styled, those annoying hazel-green eyes catching the porch light. He’s in jeans and a black long-sleeved button-down shirt that hugs his frame a little too well, sleeves rolled up just enough to show off the veins in his forearms. He’s loosely holding a beer in one hand, appearing casual.
Like he’s not a goddamn threat.
“You just crash parties now?” I ask, trying to sound bored.
“Relax. I’m here with Killian,” he says with a shrug. “I wanted to see how you looked outside of a therapist’s office.”
And there it is.
“Disappointed?”
He smirks. “Not even a little.”
I scoff and look away, my jaw tight. “Go flirt with someone else, Callahan. I’m not in the mood.”
“I’m not flirting.”
“You’re always flirting.”
“No,” he says softly. “Not always.”
Something in his voice makes me look at him again. He’s watching me now, eyes steady, expression unreadable. The beer dangles from his fingers, forgotten.
“I just wanted to see if your bark was still louder than your bite,” he adds after a beat.
I glare at him. “Try me.”
He takes a step closer, but I hold my ground. “You know what your problem is?” he asks, voice still low, still calm. “You think you hate me.”
I laugh. It’s a rough, mean sound. “I do hate you.”
He tilts his head, not buying it for a second. “No. You hate that I see your anger, and that I’m not scared to stand up to it. You hate that I say things no one else has the balls to say. You hate that I can make you feel things you don’t want to admit you’re capable of feeling.”
I don’t respond. Every word is a little too fucking close to the truth.
The brick wall at my back suddenly feels both like a trap and the only thing keeping me from doing something reckless. “Tell me to leave,” he says. “Mean it. Look me in the eye and tell me you want me to walk away.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. His gaze drops to my lips and, for a second, everything stills. The cold air. The music behind the door. The buzz in my blood. All of it freezes, waiting for the moment to snap.
I shove him hard enough to put space between us. “Don’t play with me, Callahan,” I growl.
His grin is slow, a dark thing dressed in deceitful charm. “I’m not playing, Pup,” he says, stepping back, holding my stare the entire time. “I’m hunting.”
Then he turns and walks back inside as though nothing happened.
I watch him go, my pulse thrumming, and that itch under my skin is worse than before.
Liam
21 Years Old
NateCarterisangryagain, and it’s beautiful.
