Page 17 of Sweet Sinners

Chapter fourteen

Connor

I ’m pacing again, restless, glancing at my phone every few minutes like it’ll somehow hurry Cali through the damn door.

She’s been CEO for weeks now, and each night she walks in looking more worn than the last. On good days, I get a tired smile—one that never quite reaches those eyes. On bad days, she slips past me like a ghost, quiet, withdrawn, the space between us growing colder by the day.

She’s closing herself off again. All the ground we'd gained—those quiet evenings cooking side by side, the cautious banter, the fragile, tentative trust we’d begun to build—has vanished, leaving behind nothing but a silence thick enough to suffocate. She’s pulling away, and I have no idea why .

I feel that familiar tension clawing at my chest—the one I used to feel before a fight, raw and restless.

A few old prison contacts have been messaging lately, slipping coded hints into my inbox, just enough to remind me that the underground matches are still running.

They’re dangling the temptation right under my nose—a chance for quick cash, the familiar taste of blood and adrenaline, the relief of fists connecting against flesh.

Part of me still craves that rush, that simplicity.

It used to quiet my head, numb the ache inside.

But turning violence into business always landed me in more trouble than I could handle.

I shove down the urge, forcing my hands to stay busy.

Hours slip by in the greenhouse, burying myself in the dirt and the quiet, until my muscles ache.

I’ve even begun clearing out one of the spare rooms, turning it into a makeshift gym—another distraction, another way to exhaust the restlessness in my bones.

Hell, I’ve even tried talking to the staff lately, though they still watch me warily, like they’re waiting for me to snap.

They see me exactly the way everyone else does: dangerous, volatile, a loaded gun with the safety off.

Everyone but Cali.

Despite the caution that lingered in her eyes, she’d started to give me a chance. She saw me, unfiltered and raw, and even if it scared her, she didn’t shy away. For the first time in forever, I’d started to trust someone—and she was beginning to trust me, too.

But now, she’s slipping away again, pulling back behind her walls, and I have no idea how to stop it.

My chest tightens, frustration pooling hot beneath my ribs, when the front door suddenly bangs open.

Then —

A scream.

Short, muffled, but sharp enough to send ice down my spine, jolting every nerve awake.

My pulse roars in my ears as I spin around, my body already moving toward the sound before my mind even catches up.

I move without thinking, grabbing the heavy paperweight from the side table as I round the corner, heart hammering in my chest. My eyes scan the room, bracing to face whatever just sent Cali spiraling—but there’s nothing.

No threat. No danger.

Just Cali, her back pressed tight against the front door, her face hidden behind trembling fingers, shoulders shaking slightly.

I set the paperweight down slowly, forcing my voice gentle. "Cali?"

"I don’t want to deal with you—or anyone," she snaps, her words muffled and sharp, edged with frustration. "Just…go away."

I should. I should step back and let her breathe, give her space to find herself again.

But I can’t. I won’t.

Crossing the room, I reach her in two strides and scoop her off the floor before she can pull away.

She gasps sharply, her fingers clutching my shoulders in reflex. "Connor—what the hell?"

"I've got you," I murmur, holding firm even as she squirms in protest. "You’re not doing this alone tonight."

"This is literally the opposite of leaving me alone," she says, but her voice is softer now, lacking its usual bite.

"You haven’t had a proper meal in days," I counter, my tone even but firm. "I'm not stepping back."

Carrying her to the kitchen island, I set her down, letting my hands linger against her waist for a heartbeat longer than necessary. "Have you even eaten today? "

She scoffs, folding her arms tight across her chest, defensive again. "How does that matter right now?"

I don’t answer, just hold her gaze, waiting for her stubbornness to crack.

Slowly, she deflates, shoulders sagging, voice quieting as she drags a hand through her hair.

"No," she finally admits, exhaustion bleeding into the admission.

"I didn't have time. I was dealing with accounting all day, and—" She breaks off abruptly, pressing her fingers to her temples as if it’s the only way to hold herself together.

After a tense pause, she lets out a brittle laugh.

"Someone’s embezzling money. Probably still is, and I don’t even know where to start looking.

And then I found these fucking social media posts—employees bragging about how easy it is to scam our payroll system.

Like stealing from the company is some twisted joke. "

Her voice cracks, raw and frayed, and something hot flares in my chest. Anger. Protectiveness. She’s been carrying this alone, drowning under a weight no one bothered to help her with.

And that pisses me off.

Without saying a word, I turn and open the fridge, my mind already running ahead. Cali doesn’t need empty reassurances or pity.

She needs warmth, something solid. Something real.

I grab tomatoes, bread, cheese, ham—grilled cheese and tomato soup. Comfort food. I still remember it was her favorite.

Cali trails off mid-sentence, watching me silently as I set everything on the counter, pulling out a cutting board to prep.

"What are you doing?" Her voice is wary, suspicion slipping through.

"Making you dinner," I reply, my tone even, uncomplicated.

She hesitates, eyebrows knitting slightly. "I didn’t ask you to—"

"You didn’t have to. "

I keep my hands busy, dicing tomatoes, sliding them into the pot, moving on instinct. The silence that settles between us is thick, but it doesn’t suffocate. It just sits there, breathing quietly in the spaces neither of us know how to fill yet.

After a few tense seconds, Cali finally exhales, the sound soft and yielding.

When she speaks again, it’s quieter, almost gentle. "…Thanks."

The bread hits the pan with a comforting sizzle, filling the kitchen with a steady rhythm that keeps us anchored.

And then, slowly, like a dam finally breaking, Cali talks.

Her frustration pours out unfiltered, words sharp and edged with exhaustion.

She’s drowning under everything—embezzlement, petty boardroom politics, the constant weight of needing to prove herself before she even had a chance to sit comfortably in that chair.

I don’t interrupt. I don’t try to offer quick fixes or empty promises. She doesn’t need that right now. She just needs to feel heard. So I listen, flipping the sandwiches quietly, giving her space to unravel without judgment.

By the time I slide the plate in front of her, she’s already lost in her thoughts, biting absently into the sandwich as if it’s second nature.

She pauses mid-chew, her eyes lifting to mine, unguarded for just a brief moment.

I see something flicker there—gratitude, maybe.

Relief. Something she’s not ready to put into words yet.

But then she continues eating, slow and deliberate, letting herself savor each bite as if it’s something precious.

I push the steaming mug of tomato soup toward her. She curls her fingers around it, absorbing the warmth, and another sigh slips past her lips. It’s weary, heavy, mingling softly with the steam rising from the cup.

She shakes her head slightly, voice softer now, "I know I've been rambling."

"You needed to," I say, my tone quiet but certain, like it's the simplest truth in the world.

She studies me, her gaze cautious, calculating whether she can afford to believe the words I’ve just thrown down between us.

Her eyes drift to my side of the counter, noting the absence of a plate.

Something flickers in her expression—hesitation, maybe even the impulse to offer half her meal.

But as quickly as it appears, it's gone, shuttered behind those carefully rebuilt walls.

I shift my focus to my phone, scrolling through messages.

Old contacts have started resurfacing, ghosts from a life I'd rather not remember.

Luke's name pops onto the screen, he's great with this stuff and has worked in PR for years, someone who might help Cali navigate the fallout from this payroll disaster.

It's a gamble, though.

Luke carries baggage of his own, a domestic dispute, charges dropped but never forgotten. It’s messy, complicated, the kind of history that leaves stains you can’t scrub clean. I hesitate, uncertain if I want to risk tarnishing the fragile trust Cali and I are slowly piecing together.

But she's drowning, stubbornly trying to handle everything on her own. And she needs help, even if she won’t admit it.

"I know someone in PR," I offer quietly, keeping my tone neutral, careful. "He's amazing with anything online, getting things removed from the web or added. He might be able to help, or at least point you toward someone who can."

Cali’s grip tightens on the mug, knuckles turning white. When she lifts her gaze again, her eyes are wary, questioning my intentions. "Why do you care? "

The truth slips free before I can check myself, raw and more honest than I've ever allowed myself to be with her.

"Because you're all I have left, Cali."

The words hang there, stark and unfiltered, leaving no room for retreat. And as her eyes widen slightly, registering what I've just admitted, I realize I don’t want to take them back. Because whether either of us likes it or not, it’s true.

She’s all I have.

She stays quiet, the silence between us thickening until it feels suffocating. I watch the battle play out behind her eyes, her stubborn determination to keep me at a distance fighting against something softer, something tired of this endless tug-of-war we’ve settled into.

"Just advice?" she asks cautiously, like she's bracing herself for the answer.

"If that’s all you want," I reply easily, a small smirk curving my lips to soften the edge. "Although, if you're interested in alternative methods, I’ve got plenty of experience making friends in prison."

She rolls her eyes, shaking her head as a reluctant smile tugs at her mouth. "Fine. I don’t have the energy to argue tonight. Just...don't mention the company’s name. It probably won’t matter, but I need plausible deniability."

"Got it." I lift my hands in mock surrender. "You handle the corporate mess, and I'll keep holding up my end as your resident criminal."

It’s meant as a joke, but her expression shifts slightly, something unreadable flickering across her face, a faint, hesitant amusement. It's brief, gone before I can be sure, but the fact that I managed to draw even that small reaction from her feels like a victory.

I don’t know exactly when Cali started to matter this much. Maybe it’s proximity, or the fact that this mansion feels like another cage, and she’s the only one stuck here with me. Or maybe it's something else entirely, something deeper I don't have the words for.

But there’s one thing I know for certain: when I finally walk away from this place, when the ankle monitor is removed, and I'm free to leave without watching my back, I won't be able to shake the questions that’ll haunt me.

If she’s eating properly.

If she’s okay.

If she still walks through that door every night, exhausted and alone.

And that, caring about her in a way I never planned, feels far more dangerous than any fight I've ever faced.