Page 150 of Cruel When He Smiles
Natedoesn’tlookatme the way I expect him to.
There’s no disgust or pity on his face, just straight-up rage. It’s the kind that burns steadily instead of flaring up and fading out. It’s the same kind of anger I feel every single time I think about his mother, and it gets under my skin in a way I can’t pin down.
My chest tightens, and I don’t know if it’s because I hate seeing it directed at me or because no one’s ever looked at me this way before—not with anger over what was done to me, but with anger for me.
That difference… it messes with my head.
Before I can figure out what the hell to do with that, he leans in and presses his mouth against one of the deeper scars along my ribs again. The contact is soft,too soft, as if he’s trying to take the pain out of it or change what it means—to make it something that doesn’t hurt.
A cold wave runs straight through me, and my whole body goes rigid. I don’t want it to, but it happens, and he feels it instantly.
He lifts his head, eyes locking on mine, and he doesn’t hesitate. There’s no flicker of doubt in his face, just that same fury and something else—something that feels too damn close to reverence.
Then his lips find another scar. And another. He whispers against my skin, but the words blur in my head. I can’t process them because I don’t know how to take any of this. I don’t know how to breathe through it.
His hands find my sides, guiding me back toward the bed, and pulling me down with him. My body moves on autopilot even though my mind’s still lagging, and I’m spinning out.
We’re both lying on our sides facing each other, when he says two words that hit me square in the chest. “Thank you.”
My head tips down, and he’s staring at me like I just handed him something valuable. As if showing him this part of me—this part I let no one see—was a gift. I don’t know what to do with that.
“You don’t have to thank me,” I manage, my voice coming out rougher than I mean it to.
“Yes, I do.” His fingers slide along my arm, grounding me the way I’ve always done for him. “You showed me something no one else gets to see. That means I get to keep it.”
My stomach knots. He’s looking right through me, and he sees everything. The parts I don’t hand over. The parts that don’t belong to anyone.
“And since you want to rip my mother out of my soul,” he says, dragging his fingers down my spine, “then I get to do the same to you.”
The breath I’ve been holding leaves all at once. Idowant him to strip me down to nothing, to cut out the parts of me they built,to replace every scar, every order, every ugly lesson they left in me. I want him to carve his name into the place where they still exist.
His fingers drag down my spine again, and his hand lingers at the small of my back. “Let me do it, Lover.”
My throat’s tight and my chest feels too full. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
He arches one brow. “Don’t I?”
No, he can’t. I don’t even really know what he’s asking for. I’ve never been allowed to feel safe or anything except controlled. My whole life has been built on the belief that caring and love are weaknesses. And here Nate is, holding me, telling me I’m allowed to let him take that away.
I rake a hand through my hair, trying to get my pulse under control. “Why do you want to?”
“Because it’s mine to take.” His voice is steady and sure, like it’s not even up for debate. “Because they don’t get to have you, Liam. Not anymore.”
The breath that leaves me this time is stuttered, and he notices. His hand presses a little firmer against my back to remind me he’s still here. “I know you feel it too.”
I do. I feel every inch of what he’s saying. Every word sinks into my ribs, settles in my bones, and twists. His hand slides up, fingers brushing my jaw, tilting my head so I’m looking at him. “You trust me, don’t you?”
“You already know the answer to that, Nate.”
He smirks—not the mocking one, but the certain one. “Then let me do it.”
The only thing I can do is nod because I don’t have another move here. He smiles at that, and I wait for him to realize exactly what he’s asking for. If he really means it, he needs to know the truth; he needs to know me. Not the version everyone sees, notthe golden boy. Not the well-controlled sociopath who makes people love him before he rips them apart.
He needs to know what I want to do to him.
“You think you want to own me, Pup?” I murmur, letting my fingers trail down his throat, feeling his pulse spike. “You think you know what wanting someone like me means?”
His breath gets heavier, but he doesn’t answer. So, I keep going.
