Page 135 of Cruel When He Smiles
I hurt him. I hurt him andhateddoing it.
I reach for him without thinking, my hand resting on his knee. “I don’t want you to feel disposable. I don’t want you thinking you’re just… there for me to fuck when I can’t handle myself. You’re not… You stopped being that long before I even realized it.” The truth catches in my throat, but I let it come out anyway. “You’re the only thing that makes sense when I can’t stand being in my own head.”
My body moves forward, and instead of staying on my knees alone, Nate lowers himself onto his knees in front of me. We’re face to face now, both of us grounded on the same level, both breathing in each other’s air.
The tension doesn’t break—it deepens—but it’s different this time. Neither a game nor a war. I can see every detail in his face, the small lines near his eyes, the faint flush along his cheekbones. His hand comes up, cupping the back of my neck, and then his mouth is on mine.
The relief that crashes through me is instantaneous. Our kiss isn’t rushed or desperate. It’s steady, as if he’s sealing something between us that I didn’t realize remained open before.
When we finally pull back, I rest my forehead against his. “Fuck, I’ve missed you,” I breathe.
Nate’s thumb brushes the side of my neck, a slow stroke that makes my pulse kick harder. “You didn’t lose me,” he says quietly, but his eyes stay locked on mine. “You pushed me away. That’s different.”
I swallow hard as I force myself to hold his gaze. “I know.” The admission cuts on as I say it, but it’s the truth. “And I hated every second of it.”
He tilts his head, studying me like he’s deciding whether to believe that or not. “You’re not used to having to pull someone back, are you?”
I let out a rough laugh, but it lacks humor. “No. People usually… stay.” I pause, smirking faintly at my own hypocrisy. “Or they do exactly what I want and don’t even realize it.”
“And I’m not one of those people,” he says.
“Not even close.”
“Good.” The word is a line drawn in the dirt. His grip on my neck tightens—not in warning, but to keep me right here. “Because I’m not going to be the thing you pick up when it’s convenient and drop the second it’s not. I don’t care how you’re wired, Liam. I won’t do it.”
The words dig in deep, but he’s right—he isn’t one of those people. That’s why I’ve been circling him like this for months. That’s why losing even a piece of him felt like being gutted.
I drag my tongue across my teeth, my pulse starting to climb again, but not from anger. From the fact that he’s right, and I hate that he’s right. “Tell me what you want from me, Pup.”
He shakes his head, thumb brushing the line of my jaw. “Not telling you. You figure it out. If you want me, if you really fucking mean what you just said, you’ll know.”
He refuses to hand me an easy out, and it’s infuriating and intoxicating at the same time. Normally, I’d press and corner him until he gave me something to work with, but there’s a different kind of power in the way he’s holding himself right now. He’s finally learned how to make me chase without even moving.
I lean in to close the last inch between us, my voice low against his mouth. “Then don’t go anywhere.”
His lips twitch into the faintest smirk, but he doesn’t kiss me this time. “Show me I shouldn’t.”
And that’s when it hits me—he’s not asking for some grand gesture. He’s asking for consistency. For me to stop fucking with the one thing I can’t seem to leave alone.
His fingers slide through my hair slowly, his touch so fucking gentle it makes my stomach twist. When his palm slides lower, his fingers brush my pec, and I can’t stop the flinch that rips through me. His hand freezes instantly, his eyes snapping to mine.
“You never take your shirt off,” he says quietly, almost to himself.
“No.” My voice is hoarse as I say it. “I… I can’t.”
I expect him to push. Expect him to prod at the wound like I would if our roles were reversed. But he doesn’t. He just hums softly, his fingers tracing slow, meaningless patterns along my arm, the steady rise and fall of his chest grounding me in a way I hate.
“When we were at the lookout and you were… spiraling, you mentioned something,” he says and swallows deeply. “Something about… being locked in a freezer?”
I drag a hand over my face, exhaling hard through my nose. Might as well be honest if I want my Pup back. “My mother used to lock me in a broken walk-in freezer that was in our basement. She called it conditioning.” My voice stays even, but my throat feels tight, the old cold creeping in at the edges of the memory.
His eyes are locked on mine, steady, not pitying. “Conditioning forwhat?”
“To stop feeling fear.” The words land flat between us. “She thought fear was just another indulgence, something you could strip out if you worked at it hard enough. She’d lock me in and leave me there until my breathing leveled out and I stopped shaking.”
Nate doesn’t look away, and he doesn’t try to soften it.
“I learned quick,” I add, voice dropping, “because the alternative was worse. If I didn’t pass her little tests, my father took over. He believed in different methods.”
