Page 19 of Sweet Sinners

Chapter sixteen

Connor

C ali is lethal, sharp where everyone else bends, composed where most would crumble.

Watching her during that call with Nathan, I saw it all in vivid clarity.

The way she gathered each word, dissected and sharpened it into blades she could wield effortlessly against the board.

She wasn’t just adapting to this life; she was owning it.

And damn, if that didn’t make it impossible to look away.

I exhale sharply, dragging a hand down my face. No. I can’t go there. She’s Cali, still caught up in this disaster with me, looking at me like I’m an obstacle instead of the ally I’m trying to be. Whatever stirred inside me, whatever reckless spark just ignited, it needs to be extinguished .

I push away from the counter, needing to move, to escape the tension under my skin.

My feet carry me toward the kitchen on autopilot, retracing a path that’s become too familiar.

Around me, the mansion looms cold and silent, vast rooms filled with things that don't belong to me.

The air is heavy, scented with the sterile polish of money and ghosts of cologne I've never worn.

Even with the lights blazing, shadows cling to the corners, hollowing out the space. It feels haunted, grieving a history it refuses to forget.

Just like me.

I open the fridge, scanning its contents, but my hands freeze mid-reach, and suddenly I’m not here anymore. I’m back in that prison kitchen, standing in front of the walk-in cooler, reaching for vegetables, pretending this is better than stirring a pot of oatmeal that always tasted like cardboard.

It never fucking worked, though. Escaping into routine never drowned out the whispers or the laughter or the footsteps closing in behind me.

"Pretty boy thinks he's too good for us," a voice sneers from behind.

Another scoffs, louder, rougher. "What, mommy and daddy knock you around? Is that why you’re such a quiet little shit?"

I don’t look up. Don’t answer. Just grab the broccoli and carrots like they’re a lifeline, hoping silence will buy me a way out. It never does.

"He looks like someone already taught him a lesson," another voice drawls, amusement bleeding through.

They laugh, moving closer. My skin prickles even though the air is ice-cold. The space around me shrinks, tighter, suffocating me slowly.

"Rich boy probably doesn’t even know how to fight," someone says. "Maybe we should teach him. "

The air thickens, and my pulse kicks hard, echoing inside my skull. Keep your head down, keep quiet, don’t react. But when I finally try to slip past their circle, a shoulder slams hard into mine, nearly knocking the tray from my grip.

"You like knives, pretty boy?" The one in the center—older, built like a fucking wall—grins cruelly, the promise of violence glinting sharp in his eyes.

Stay down. Stay quiet. Stay still.

I repeat the words over and over in my head even when the punches land, even when my vision fades, even when they leave me beaten, unconscious, locked behind that freezer door. By the time another inmate found me, I’d spent a week in the infirmary, nursing broken bones and a shattered pride.

"Connor!"

The voice tears through the memory like a blade. My head jerks up, air rushing back into my lungs, the kitchen swirling briefly before settling back into reality.

Cali leans against the doorway, eyes narrowed, scanning my face like she can see exactly where my head just was.

Exhaustion clings to her—it's in the slight slump of her shoulders, in the tired way she props herself up against the frame. But there’s something softer, too.

A careful warmth creeping into her expression, a smile tugging faintly at the corner of her mouth, like she’s almost relieved to see me.

“You’ve earned Amazon privileges,” she announces casually. “And we’re getting takeout. Your pick.”

I blink, momentarily stunned by how fucking normal she sounds. Like we’re two people who do this all the time, as if there aren’t landmines hidden beneath every step we take toward each other .

She steps into the kitchen, not even pausing long enough for me to process before dropping another bomb. “Also, can you drink without getting in trouble? Because I brought beer.”

Her words hang between us, absurdly easy, too easy . My brain scrambles to catch up, still caught halfway between that kitchen in my nightmares and the girl standing in front of me, holding out a night of beer and takeout like we’re just normal.

I have no fucking clue what to do with normal.

But I nod anyway, quickly ordering pizza from a place down the street, a simple choice that feels safe, familiar. By the time it arrives, Cali’s already out on the terrace, a couple of beers popped open, setting the scene so effortlessly that it seems like she's done this a thousand times.

I step out into the crisp evening air, the coolness against my skin grounding me. The terrace is quiet, the distant hum of Boston’s traffic creating a soft backdrop. The pool glows faintly blue, reflecting a sky blurred by city lights, stars invisible behind the haze.

I sink into the chair across from her, cautious. “Cali, what’s going on here?”

She takes a sip of her beer, her movements slow, deliberate, before answering. “Thanks to your help, I made some actual progress at work today. And honestly, I’m too tired to argue.” Her voice is lighter than usual, almost playful.

Something in my chest loosens, a weight I didn’t realize was there. She chose this—chose to sit here, in the dark, with me. The thought does something reckless inside me, something I shouldn’t let myself acknowledge.

Before I can get too comfortable with it, though, she suddenly leans forward and pinches my arm. Hard .

“What the hell?” I snap, jerking away, nearly losing my grip on the slice of pizza.

She smirks, eyes glinting. “Just letting you know this is real,” she says lightly, taking another sip of beer. “Enjoy this while it lasts, Connor. Don’t get used to it.”

She takes another bite, barely paying me any attention, but I can’t stop watching her. The soft glow of the terrace lights catches in her strawberry-blonde hair, illuminating the exhaustion in her posture that never quite dims the fierce spark behind her eyes.

She doesn't look like someone who should be carrying the weight of an empire.

She looks human. Just a girl, running on empty but refusing to slow down, chasing something most people can't even see.

I thought I'd glimpsed every side of Cali since I started living in this house, but this version—carefree, open—might just be my favorite yet.

I don’t realize I’m staring until she meets my gaze, eyebrow lifted in a silent challenge. "What?"

I shake my head, quickly reaching for my beer. "Nothing."

Nothing I can say out loud, anyway.

Cali keeps talking, filling the silence with boardroom battles, financial figures, and all the strategic moves she's making to stake her claim on a legacy that's hers by birth but not yet by right.

She picks distractedly at the pizza crust, eyes locked on mine with a quiet demand that I respond, to share something—anything.

She wants me to talk.

Fuck.

I inhale slowly, pushing words out before I can talk myself out of it. “I thanked Nathan for his help, but he's still not much of a talker. Spent some time in the greenhouse. And then…I paced. A lot.”

Her head tilts, confusion flickering across her face. “Paced?”

I glance back at the mansion, the towering columns and floor-to-ceiling windows, at pristine white walls that still feel stained no matter how many times they’re scrubbed clean. It’s suffocating. A gilded cage, where ghosts linger at every corner, pressing in closer, always watching.

“This house is haunted,” I murmur, my fingers tightening around the cold beer bottle.

“I pace to clear my head, but the ghosts never stop whispering.” I trail off, suddenly aware how pathetic I sound.

Maybe the beer is hitting me harder than I thought.

Or maybe it’s because I haven't had anything stronger than stolen sips of whiskey in years. “Forget my bullshit. Tonight’s supposed to be a celebration.”

Cali shifts in her seat, pulling her legs beneath her, turning fully toward me with eyes sharp enough to see straight through me. “Maybe,” she says carefully, holding my gaze, “but if something’s wrong, I should know.”

Her voice is soft, gentler than I deserve, and for some reason, it makes my chest ache. Annoyed, I deflect with a smirk. “Since when did you start caring so much?”

Her lips twitch, amusement dancing in her eyes, but she holds steady. “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” she shoots back, tone dry. “I’m not saying I trust you yet. But if I was ever going to, now’s your chance.”

The teasing comment hits harder than it should, lodging painfully behind my ribs.

I could keep things easy. Surface-level. Pretend it means nothing.

Instead, my grip tightens on the bottle, and I let myself go deeper, straight into the darkness. Because I want her trust, more desperately than I ever wanted freedom.

“I still remember that night, Cali,” I tell her quietly, voice scraping raw.

“I walked into the living room, right into their blood, and I can’t get those images out of my head.

” The beer bottle feels heavier now, its cold seeping into my bones.

“I know I shouldn’t have touched anything, but I pulled the knife from her neck.

I just—” I break off sharply, shaking my head, jaw clenched. “I couldn’t leave her like that.”

The terrace feels too small, the air too thick.

But her expression doesn't shift, not to pity, not disgust. She just watches me, quietly, waiting for whatever comes next.

“I tried to save her, even though she was already cold.” My voice is quiet, raw, edged with something that hurts too much to name. “I was so fucking stupid. Should’ve called 911, but I was high, stumbling around, not thinking.”

I close my eyes, but the darkness only sharpens the memory. The metallic scent thick in the air, my mother’s skin already losing warmth, stiffening beneath my hands. The blood soaking through my fingers as I pressed desperately against wounds that couldn’t heal—wounds I couldn’t fix.

I swallow hard, chasing the past down with another long, bitter sip of beer.

One of the staff found me first, panic written all over their face before they called the cops.

After that, it was all blurred lines and numbness.

Interrogations. Accusations. And me, stuck somewhere between anger and emptiness.

“I hate being in that fucking living room,” I admit, the words scraping out of me. “I know it's clean. Sterile. But when I walk in there, I can still see her blood. Still smell it.” My jaw tightens until it aches, tension coiling through my muscles. “It never leaves.”

Cali doesn’t say anything at first. She just sits there, letting my words linger, heavy and raw in the silence.

Then, quietly, “I’m sorry.”

I snort bitterly, shaking my head. “Don’t pity me.”

“I don’t,” she says evenly, her voice softer but certain. “I just can’t imagine carrying that kind of pain every single day.”

Fuck, somehow that hits deeper than anything else she could’ve said.

We fall quiet again, the only sounds now the faint scrape of cutlery and the distant, muted hum of the city beyond the mansion’s walls. My eyes drift toward the greenhouse, lingering on the place that’s somehow become the only corner of this massive house that doesn’t feel like a mausoleum.

“I think I might replace the glass with stained glass,” I say suddenly, the idea taking shape as soon as it hits the air. “Could be a good project.”

Cali raises an eyebrow, skeptical amusement flickering in her eyes. “Should I be trusting you with welding tools?”

I smirk, leaning back slightly. “I promise to only use them under careful supervision. Besides, it’d brighten the place up, add some color. You might actually enjoy reading there again.”

Her expression falters briefly, something shadowed slipping behind her gaze.

I’ve seen her avoid that spot ever since my careless joke, ever since I threw words at her that she didn’t deserve, just because I wanted a reaction—any reaction.

Instead, she’d given me silence, choosing distance over confrontation.

Part of me wishes she’d yell, scream—anything to stop her from swallowing every emotion, burying it down until she has no choice but to drown it in alcohol. She thinks I don’t see it, but I do.

After a moment, she sets down her slice, considering. “Actually…that might not be your worst idea.”

“High praise,” I deadpan.

She snorts, gaze shifting toward the sprawling estate around us, thoughtful and distant .

Silence wraps around us again, but this time, it feels lighter. Easier. Comfortable, in a way neither of us expected.

For tonight, at least, it’s enough.