Page 167 of Cruel When He Smiles
“Not a whisper,” Killian says. “The frat sighting was the last. And before you ask—yes, I already made sure the story won’t spread beyond the people we control.”
I nod to myself, though he can’t see it. “You think anyone’s connecting it to me?”
“They wouldn’t dare,” he says without hesitation. “And if they tried, they wouldn’t live long enough to make it a problem. You know I can get Father’s contacts to arrange a scene.”
There’s a pause on the line, long enough for me to hear the faint sound of him exhaling smoke. “You know,” he says finally,“you’ve been wound so tight about this, I wasn’t sure if you’d even let me handle it. Thought you might try to play knight in shining armor yourself.”
I lean forward, bracing my elbows on the table. “I know where my strengths are, and I know where yours are.”
He chuckles, low and humorless. “That’s the thing about us. We’ve always known where to draw the lines.”
“We’ve also known when to cross them,” I say, and he laughs again, warmer this time, the sound curling through the phone in that way only he can make sound both genuine and threatening.
“True, but this isn’t your line to cross. You’ve got him to deal with.” He quickly continues before I can respond. “And don’t start. You’ve been glued to him for days. He’s fine because you’re keeping him that way. So, keep doing it. Let me handle the rest.”
I hum at that. “So, when do we move?”
There’s a pause, not a hesitation—Killian doesn’t hesitate—but a stretch of silence that tells me he’s waiting to deliver the line he’s been sitting on since he called. “We already have,” he says finally.
My fingers tighten around the phone. “What?”
That’s when he chuckles. It’s not loud, not even prolonged, but it’s enough to tell me he’s enjoying this more than he should. “I’ve had her for a few days now.”
The words are simple, but the effect is instant. Every muscle in my body stops moving for a beat before my mind catches up, calculating what this means, where she might be, how quickly I can get to her without drawing a straight line from me to the outcome we both know is coming. “You’re holding her?”
“In a manner of speaking,” he says, almost idly. “I’ve had her since you asked me if I was in the mood for murder.”
Of course he did.
I stand, pacing to the window with the phone still pressed to my ear. “Don’t touch her until I say so.”
Killian’s voice is unhurried. “You planning on letting Nate have the honors?”
I stare out at the street below, my mind flashing back to Nate begging me to make it go away. “If he wants them.”
“That’s… poetic,” Killian says, and I can hear the smirk even if I can’t see it. “But you know it’s messy when you hand that kind of power to someone who’s still got emotional skin in the game.”
“I don’t care about messy.” My voice comes out harsh, but I don’t dial it back. “She walked into his room, and touched him. That’s already too far.”
“Then maybe you let me take care of it clean,” Killian offers, though I know him well enough to hear the bait in the suggestion.
“No,” I say, quick and absolute. “Not yet. I want him to have the choice. She’s been in his head long enough without him having a say in how it ends.”
There’s another pause, then he laughs under his breath. “You’re getting sentimental.”
“I’m getting protective,” I correct, though I know the line between the two is getting thinner every time Nate looks at me like I’m the only safe thing in the room. “And you’d do the same if it was someone in your space.”
“Fair,” he admits. Then, after a beat, “I’ll hold her. No one will know she’s missing until we want them to. If you change your mind, you know how to reach me.”
I don’t thank him—Killian doesn’t operate on gratitude—but I let the silence stand long enough to mean something before I say, “Keep me updated.”
“Always,” he says, and then the line goes dead.
I lower the phone, staring at the dark screen for a few seconds before slipping it into my pocket. Killian’s chuckle is still ringing in my head, and I can’t tell if that sound is a promise or a warning.
I find Nate in my room later that evening, laid out across the bed in a lazy sprawl that implies he’s comfortable enough here to forget it’s mine and not his. His bare feet are crossed at the ankles, his phone in his hand, the soft gray cotton of his shirt bunched at his waist.
He doesn’t look up when I step inside, but I can feel his awareness shift subtly as he always does when I’m near, like I’ve just taken the air in the room and decided how much he gets to breathe.
