Page 14 of Sweet Sinners

They wait, expecting hesitation, maybe even defeat. But I offer nothing but cool, quiet confidence.

After a deliberate pause, I add, "The title may be new, but my perspective isn't. I'm here to learn from all of you—and perhaps you'll learn from me."

One shifts slightly, just enough to let me know I’ve landed a blow. It isn't respect—not yet—but I’ve caught his attention.

Good. It’s a start.

The elevator doors open smoothly, and I step out, throwing casually over my shoulder, "A stronger company means better benefits. Flexible hours. More family time. Maybe even longer vacations."

The subtle reminder lands exactly as intended, aligning their self-interest firmly with mine.

When I get home, there’s an unfamiliar ease in my chest. For the first time since stepping into my father's shoes, I feel like I might actually be able to breathe.

And then, without thinking, I almost call out for him.

The realization punches me hard, stopping me cold.

My fingers curl tightly around the strap of my bag as I breathe through the sudden ache. He’s gone, Cali. You're on your own.

I lean heavily against the door, eyes closed, waiting for the sting behind my eyelids to fade.

God, what I wouldn't give for one more conversation. To tell him I'm figuring it out. That I'm doing things my own way, leading through trust, not fear or control.

Because I don’t just want power. Or success.

I want loyalty.

Not the kind you can buy or intimidate into submission.

I want the kind that sticks, the kind worth fighting for.

Pushing away from the door, I drift toward the kitchen, the scent of something unexpectedly…good filling my senses. Warm, rich, curling around me like an invitation I’m not sure I should accept.

I stop short.

Connor ?

There’s no one else here. The staff had the day off—I’d made sure of that. They needed a break, and I craved the silence. Coming home to an empty house, I’d planned on grilled cheese or toast—something mindless and easy.

But this?

This smells like effort. Like patience. Like someone actually gave a damn. My brows draw together as I step closer, confusion pressing down on me as heavily as the silence in the room.

Did he…cook?

I hesitate at the threshold of the kitchen, cautiously intrigued. Three years in prison—is that long enough to learn more than just how to get into trouble?

Then another thought creeps in, whispering in the back of my mind like a snake in the shadows.

He wouldn’t poison me…would he?

I swallow hard, my stomach knotting slightly. He wouldn’t. He needs me alive, he’d said it himself. But as I slide onto a stool at the island, staring down at the carefully plated meal, doubt trickles through me, slow and toxic.

It smells incredible—warm, savory, and so inviting that my stomach twists with hunger.

Slowly, carefully, I pick up my spoon.

If he wanted me dead, he wouldn’t have to be so patient about it.

I take the first bite, the flavor melting on my tongue, rich and perfectly spiced. Without thinking, a small, involuntary moan slips past my lips.

The room goes utterly still.

Behind me, something clatters sharply—metal hitting wood—and I snap my head up.

Connor .

He’s standing by the sink, completely frozen. His fingers flex, knuckles white against the countertop like he’s fighting to hold himself back.

And his eyes—God, those eyes—lock onto mine, dark and blazing with an intensity that sends a dangerous rush through my veins.

The air thickens between us, turning electric, charged with something I refuse to name. My body reacts before my mind catches up, heat creeping over my skin, burning along my throat.

Connor’s gaze drops to my mouth, and instinctively, my tongue slips out to chase the lingering taste of spice. Without thinking, my thumb follows, tracing my lower lip, slow and deliberate.

He shifts slightly, his chest rising on a sharp inhale.

“Jesus,” he breathes, low and strained.

My stomach tightens, flipping dangerously.

I should say something—anything—but my mind short-circuits under the intensity of his stare. Dark and possessive. Like he wants something. Like maybe, for just a second, he’s forgotten exactly who we are to each other.

Swallowing hard, I force myself to break the silence. “This is…really good,” I admit, my voice softer than intended.

He steps forward, the dim kitchen lighting catching the strong line of his jaw, the way his shirt stretches tight across his chest. “So you’re actually eating what I cooked,” he says quietly, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

I nod, dipping my spoon into the bowl again, deliberately taking another bite, letting him watch.

His gaze fixes on my lips again. “Finally realized I wouldn’t poison you?”

I freeze for half a second—shit, so he noticed that.

Recovering quickly, I hold his stare, swallowing slowly. “If you were going to kill me, Connor, I doubt you’d waste good food doing it.”

His lips twitch slightly, fighting back a smirk that doesn’t fully form. He remains quiet a beat too long, his eyes heavy on me.

When the silence starts to stretch thin again, I tilt my head, drawling, “You might as well take a picture if you’re going to stare that hard.”

The words land between us, hotter than they should, loaded with something dangerous.

Connor’s head tilts just a fraction, amusement glinting briefly, as if he's trying to keep something hidden beneath. His voice dips lower, almost a whisper. “Yeah. A picture.” His gaze drags over me deliberately, slowly, leaving heat in its wake. “That’s exactly what I need.”

A shiver runs straight through me, uninvited and undeniably strong, leaving my pulse racing. My breath catches, fingers tightening around the spoon. I tell myself I’m overthinking this, reading far too much into his words.

But the heat in his eyes says I’m not.

I should be focusing on why he’s here. Why he’s under house arrest, the unanswered questions hanging heavy between us.

But right now, all I can think about is him.

And that?

That might be the most dangerous thing of all.