Page 67 of Cruel When He Smiles
I breathe him in, slow and deep, before pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth—soft, not demanding. Not yet. “I care more than you want me to, and I notice more than you realize.”
And it’s true. It’s the one truth I can’t weaponize without bleeding myself.
I pull back to look at him properly; his green eyes are glassy, his bottom lip trembling, and the anger still vibrating in his shoulders is now buried under something heavier.
Need.
Loneliness.
Surrender.
And I don’t need him to say it. I don’t need a confession because I already know I have him now.
“You flinch when people speak softly, because you think it means they’re calculating. You don’t trust soft, because soft hurt you.” I let my voice drop to a whisper. “So, you prefer rage. You prefer loud. At least then you can see the hit coming and you don’t have to admit that being touched softly leaves deeper bruises.”
His eyes are blazing—but not with hate, with panic. Real, tangible,I know you’re too closepanic. “Stop fucking psychoanalyzing me.”
“Nate,” I say quietly, “when was the last time someone looked at you without asking you to be something else? I’m not asking you for anything but your time.”
Lie.
“I’m not trying to fix you.”
Lie.
“I just see you.”
Truth.
His eyes burn, but he doesn’t look away. He’s unraveling again, and this time, it’s all for me.
“Why are you doing this?” His voice isn’t loud. It’s not even angry. It’s raw and torn straight from a part of him I don’t think he’s ever let anyone see.
And that’s where I sink the knife.
My breath brushes the space between us, close enough that I feel the tremble in his shoulders when I speak. “Because the only thing more beautiful than watching you burn…” I pause, smiling faintly, “is watching you try not to.”
I lower my voice even more. “You think your anger protects you. That if you stay mad enough, no one can get in. But it’s just armor, Nate. And right now, you’re bleeding through the cracks.”
His breath hitches when I lift my hand slowly. I’m giving him time to stop me, to move, to run. But he doesn’t. He stays. My fingers brush his cheek, light as a whisper, but he’s still not pulling away.
“You’re always so busy proving how untouchable you are,” I murmur, “but here you are. Alone. Letting me close to see what you try so hard to bury.”
He inhales sharply, chest expanding with the kind of breath that isn’t for oxygen—it’s for control. But he already lost that the second he let me speak.
“You want to know why I’m doing this, Pup?” I whisper. “Because youlet me. Because, no matter how loud you scream that you hate me… you never walk away.”
His hands are balled into fists and shaking at his sides. I just know every instinct is screaming at him to run. Or fight. Or maybe collapse. But he stays, and that tells me everything I need to know.
“You feel it, too,” I say, breath ghosting over his skin. “Every time I get close. That pull. That pressure. You hate it because it’s stronger than your hate. Because it’sme.”
I reach up, two fingers under his chin, guiding his head slightly so he has to face me. “Tell me to fuck off again,” I whisper, but he doesn’t. His throat moves, but no sound comes out. “Say it, Nate.”
Killian was right. Now is my chance, and I’ll thank him later.
Right now, I’ve got a broken boy to ruin.
Nate
