Page 91 of Cruel When He Smiles
He hums. “Because you’re mine, Pup. And I always look after my toys.”
And before I can fucking react, before I can find my voice, before I can process what that does to me—
The line goes dead.
I stand there for another full minute, just listening to the silence left behind. My phone slips from my hand and lands on the bathroom counter. I stare at myself again, not to study the marks this time, not to panic, but to ground myself.
I have to get out of my head.
Nate
Imovethroughtheday in a haze, every step mechanical, every breath something I force myself to take.
I shower, towel off, and throw on clothes that don’t matter. I eat because I know I should, not because I’m hungry. I walk into class, take notes I won’t remember, and answer questions I don’t even fully register.
It’s all autopilot. I don’t stop to analyze the way my body goes through the motions while my brain’s still fogged up, caught somewhere between shame and confusion, between denial and that low hum in the back of my skull that hasn’t left me alone since last night.
It’s not until lunchtime, when I finally drop onto the edge of a cold stone bench behind the rec building, that the realization hits me square in the chest with enough force to knock the air from my lungs. I pause, blinking as I retrace my steps. Not just this morning, but every damn thing I’ve done since I woke up. The order of it. The pacing.
I did everything the way he told me to.
I followed the exact routine Liam laid out for me, word for word, order for order. I didn’t even hesitate. From the moment I hung up this morning, I fell into the instructions like they were law—shower, eat, move, act normal—and I obeyed them without questioning a goddamn thing. Not once did I stop and think about why I was doing it. I just moved like I was supposed to. Like hewantedme to.
The thought makes my gut twist so hard, it pulls a choked breath out of me. I plant my hands on the edge of the bench, the stone biting into my palms, and stare at the cracks in the sidewalk.
He didn’t just talk me down; he rewired me. Fucking programmed me like I was some well-behaved dog waiting for my next command. Because when Liam Callahan tells me to do something in that voice—that low, calm, possessive voice that wraps around my mind and squeezes until everything else goes quiet—I listen.
Good boy.
My chest tightens, the words ringing in my skull. I swallow hard, trying to push the phrase down, trying to kill the heat that creeps into my cheeks even as a wave of shame rises to meet it. I press my elbows to my knees and hunch forward, hiding my face in my hands like that’ll somehow reset everything, like it’ll give me a second to pretend I’m still in control of my own head.
I need to tell someone.
My hand twitches toward my pocket for my phone so I can text Sage. I want to tell him everything, every fucked-up detail, spill it all before I lose my grip completely. I want to see his name light up my screen and feel the safety in his voice, hear him curse me out for being this goddamn stupid. I want him to coax me back into myself—because if anyone could, it’s him. He’d see rightthrough me, see the damage, grab me by the collar, and remind me who the fuck I used to be before all of this.
But I can’t because Liam told me not to.
That thought alone makes bile rise in my throat.
I drag in a breath and lean forward again, elbows resting on my knees once more, my head hanging low between my shoulders. The silence around me doesn’t help. It just lets the noise in my head get louder. The rational part of me wants to scream. It tells me I’m still in control, that I’m not some brainwashed pet letting a psychopath crawl into my head and lock the door behind him.
But when I glance up again, all of that logic collapses under the weight of one simple image.
Liam.
He stands across the quad in casual conversation with someone I don’t recognize—some guy in a hoodie who’s laughing at whatever Liam just said. It should be harmless. Just two guys talking between classes, sharing a joke before walking off in opposite directions. There’s no tension, no flirtation, no body language to read into. It’s all innocent.
Until Liam reaches out.
His hand brushes the guy’s arm briefly, nothing worth noticing, but my vision goes red.
It’s not what he does, it’s not even how he does it. It’s that he touches, that he stands there, smooth and untouched, acting like he didn’t destroy me last night, like he didn’t whisper filth and praise into my neck while my body begged for more. That he looks so fucking unbothered by all of it. That he touched someone else.
My hands curl into fists, and my stomach clenches with a sudden, brutal surge of heat that turns quickly into something uglier. It sinks into my chest, tightening everything until I can’t breathe.
Jealousy. Possessive, irrational, completely unhinged jealousy.
It’s not the emotion that scares me—it’s how fast it hits, how natural it feels, like it’s always been there under the surface just waiting for a reason to rise.
