Page 115 of Cruel When He Smiles
His smirk doesn’t falter, but there’s a twitch in his left hand, subtle but there, and I catch it. He wants to reach for me, I know it, but he’s holding himself back from it. I don’t know what to do with that either.
Without thinking, I reach out, curl my hand around his wrist, and pull it from his pocket. Then I let my fingers slide down until I can thread them through his. He goes still, his eyes meet mine, and I almost lose my nerve.
Almost.
“So,” I say, voice light even though my heart’s pounding hard enough to hurt. “I heard you lost your shit when I got tackled.”
Liam doesn’t blink. “Did I?” he asks, tone almost bored, yet his grip tightens around mine for a split second.
“Apparently.” I tilt my head, watching the flicker of something in his expression—not quite a flinch, not quite a smirk. That in-between space where he doesn’t know whether to lie or let it slide. “You sure you’re not catching feelings, Lover?”
His smirk turns a little cruel. “I think the painkillers are making you delusional, Pup.”
I hum, watching him, my fingers still locked around his as I try to find the nerve to ask the question that has been eating at me since I woke up. “What am I to you, Liam?”
His smirk vanishes for a second—long enough for something dark to glint behind his hazel eyes, and my stomach drops. Because for the first time, I don’t think evenheknows the answer.
Liam
“WhatamItoyou, Liam?”
He doesn’t even flinch when he says it. His voice is steady, even though I can see the hesitation in his eyes and how his throat bobs after the words fall. Nate has always been braver than most; brave enough to look me in the eye while he asks me that. Brave enough to risk whatever the fuck I might say in response.
The problem is, I don’t have an answer that makes sense in a way normal people would understand. There’s no cute name for what this is—no romantic bullshit wrapped in clean definitions. I can’t dress it up, tie it with a fucking bow, and hand it over like it’s a gift, all soft and palatable. I can’t give him something he can show off to his friends and say,“This is who we are.”
Because we don’t fit into anyone else’s idea of normal. What we are, what he is to me, is darker than that. It’s fucked up and twisted, and it’s real in a way I don’t know how to put into words without scaring the shit out of him and myself.
And still, the truth is the only thing I can give him.
He’s mine.
From the second I laid eyes on him, from the first time he opened that smart mouth and challenged me, from the moment I saw the fire in him begging to be tamed—I knew. There wasn’t a single doubt in my mind.
So, I don’t give him a sweet lie or a careful truth. I don’t pretend to be something I’m not.
I tilt my head, let my gaze linger on him for a few long seconds, then let my grip on his fingers tighten. “You’re mine, Pup.”
His lips part at the sound of it, his breath stutters, and what I see in his face—fuck, I didn’t expect it. There’s no fear, no recoil, and no disgust.
Helikesit.
He likes hearing it, and not in a surface-level way. Not in the way someone enjoys a compliment they weren’t expecting. It landsinhim. I watch it move through him like a wave, something he tries to hide, tries not to show, but can’t stop from settling beneath his skin.
And there it is.
A smile.
A real fucking smile.
Not the sarcastic smirk he used to throw at me in therapy. Not the forced, defensive one he hides behind when he’s backed into a corner. It’s so small and brief, I almost miss it—but it’s real, and that matters more than anything he could’ve said.
My chest tightens uncomfortably. I don’t get real. I don’tdoreal. I’ve never wanted it before; I’ve never needed anyone’s truth but my own.
But this? That smile?
I want to carve it into my memory.
I lean in without thinking, brushing my knuckles against his jaw. I watch how his breath stutters again, how his lashesflutter, and feel how his fingers twitch in mine. He leans into the touch without realizing, and it does something violent to my composure.
