Page 24 of Sweet Sinners

Chapter twenty-one

Connor

I 'm wrestling with the glass, fighting to get the edges just right, but the tools I finally got from Amazon feel clumsy in my hands.

Glass is different than metal, sharper, unpredictable, unforgiving.

I hiss through my teeth when a shard slices from my fingertip down to the base of my finger, a clean line that immediately wells up with blood.

Curses spill out, rough and biting, the kind of language that belongs in prison cells rather than the polished halls of a mansion.

I barely register footsteps in the hallway, staff members who pause, hesitate, then retreat.

Blood pools in my palm, thick and hot, trickling down my wrist before dripping onto the floor in heavy, crimson drops .

"Come on, rich boy. Can't handle what we're dishing out?"

The voice slams into me, echoing through my skull just before a fist crashes into my face.

I stagger, trying to stay upright, but the hits keep coming. A boot catches me in the gut, driving the air from my lungs in one brutal rush. Pain flares, bright and blinding, blood coating my tongue with the sickening, metallic taste of defeat.

"You'd better toughen up if you wanna last a day in here," another inmate taunts, his foot slamming into my ribs.

They circle me, vultures waiting to pick me apart. The guards don't step in, they won't. To them, I’m already guilty. Already damned. Accused of murdering my mother and stepfather, leaving my stepsister orphaned. They don't give a shit if these men tear me apart.

"Can't even stand, huh? What’s wrong, useless without a knife?"

Another blow lands against my back, forcing my spine to arch in agony. I clamp down hard, teeth grinding, refusing to give them the satisfaction of hearing me break. They want me to scream, to beg, to prove I'm just another weakling they can devour. But I'll never give them that.

"Enough!"

The voice rips through the chaos, powerful and unyielding.

I brace for the next hit, curled into myself, but instead, the energy shifts—the kicks stop, footsteps shuffle back. The group parts like a dark tide, and a tall, imposing figure steps forward, ink and scars mapping his skin.

Dante.

Without hesitation, he grips my arm, hauling me to my feet with one swift pull. He eyes my battered form, assessing the damage. "Get to the clinic," he orders. "Then find me at dinner. You hear?"

"Why bother?" I rasp, the words burning my throat .

Dante’s stare hardens, something like respect flickering briefly in his gaze. "Because you don’t back down, even when you’re losing. I respect that. Stick close to me, and I'll make sure you survive this place."

"Connor! What the fuck!"

Cali’s voice slices through the memory, sharp enough to jerk me back into the present.

My head snaps up, breath ragged, reality spinning around me like the aftermath of a hit. For a second, I’m not even sure where I am—prison walls blur into mansion walls, past merging with present. My vision tunnels, ears buzzing, pulse hammering loud enough to drown out everything.

I glance down. Blood drips steadily from my palm, staining the floor in vivid red droplets that make my stomach twist.

Then Cali’s there, grabbing my hand, pressing against the wound as blood smears across her fingers. "Jesus, Connor," she snaps, panic edging every syllable, frustration sharpening her voice like a blade. "You're bleeding all over the place!"

"I'm fine," I grit out, voice rough, barely audible even to myself.

She tightens her hold, eyes blazing, furious and fierce. "This isn’t prison!" She twists sharply, shouting over her shoulder, "Someone get me a first aid kit, now!"

Footsteps hurry off, but Cali doesn't budge. She doesn’t give me space, doesn’t allow me to hide. Instead, in a move that steals every thought from my head, she climbs into my lap, straddling me so I have no choice but to meet her stare head-on.

Her chest rises and falls fast, cheeks flushed, eyes glittering with something raw, something real. "Talk to me," she demands, voice shaking with intensity. "How the hell did you let this happen? What were you thinking? "

I try to shift the tension, force a smirk. "Glass is trickier than metal," I say tightly.

She shakes her head sharply, lips parting on a harsh breath, frustration bleeding into her voice.

"Wear fucking gloves, Connor," she bites out, her fingers pressing harder, sending pain—and something else—sparking through my veins. "You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to be reckless like nothing matters. You’re not bulletproof! "

Her grip tightens, holding me grounded, steady, like an anchor I didn’t realize I needed. I should push her away. I should tell her to back off and laugh this off like it's nothing. But I can't. Because the way she's staring at me right now?

Like she actually cares?

That hits harder than any wound.

I watch her carefully, staying silent as she tends to my hand. While I’m trapped in a spiral, lost in shadows, she’s steady, methodical. Her fingers move deftly, wrapping gauze, securing tape, but then she pauses. Takes a shaky breath. Looks down at her hands.

They’re covered in my blood.

A sharp shudder crashes through me, and nausea twists my stomach.

For a second, my vision swims, tilting on its axis.

I can’t do this again—not here, not with her.

Blood in this house has always haunted me, dragging me straight back to that moment, those lifeless bodies sprawled across the floor.

I tear my gaze away, fixating on the ceiling, forcing slow, steady breaths into reluctant lungs.

Some shrink once said I might have PTSD from finding my mother and my stepfather like that.

I’d brushed him off, shrugged it away. Told myself it was nothing, that knives were the only trigger.

But it’s not just knives, it’s blood. Always the fucking blood, staining these walls, staining my memories .

Cali’s voice slices through the haze. "Are you about to pass out on me? Because I swear to God, Connor, I will call a hospital—"

"I can't leave," I snap, harsher than intended. The ankle monitor’s weight tightens around me like a shackle. "You know the rules."

She narrows her eyes, defiant, every word etched with steel. "If it’s life or death, you’re damn right you’ll leave. And if that means fighting officers or bending rules, I’ll handle it."

I try to shake my head, dismiss her, brush her off, but Cali won’t have it. She grips my chin, fingers firm yet careful, forcing my eyes to hers.

“Look at me, Connor,” she orders, voice low but sharp as a blade.

“You’re all I’ve got left.” The confession costs her, and I watch her swallow down whatever pride kept her from admitting it before.

“I need you whole. So you’re going to see a doctor, you’re going to wear the damn gloves, and you’re done being reckless with yourself. Got it?”

It’s not a request. It’s a demand, ironclad and unyielding. But beneath her frustration lies something more raw, something that burns hotter and deeper.

Her fingers dig deeper into my chin, forcing me to face the truth in her eyes. She shifts slightly on my lap, breathing unevenly, and for the first time, I really see her, the pressure she’s carrying, the cracks in her armor, the fight she wages just to keep from breaking apart.

She’s lonely too.

I’ve been so wrapped up in my own ghosts, in my own loss, I never stopped to wonder if maybe she was just as haunted. If coming back here was just as painful for her as it was for me. That maybe this mansion doesn’t only trap my demons, but hers too.

Maybe she ran from this place for a reason, the same way I’d leave it if I had a choice .

“Tell me you hear me,” she demands again, quieter now. And this time I hear the fear beneath the strength, the silent plea not to leave her alone in this hell.

I swallow, the knot in my throat burning.

“I hear you,” I murmur, reaching up with my good hand, my thumb brushing gently over her cheek, pushing back a loose strand of hair.

Her eyes soften, just for a heartbeat, and the guarded mask slips enough for me to see the girl beneath, the one I’ve never truly noticed until now.

“Take a breath, Calliope.”

“Don’t you dare tell me to—”

“I get it,” I interrupt, my voice rougher than I intend. “Plenty of people think I should be six feet under, forget the hospital. But trust me, this looks worse than it is. Fingers bleed like hell, but give it an hour. It’ll stop.”

She clenches her jaw, gaze fierce, as if she’s afraid I’ll vanish if she blinks. So I soften my voice, pushing gently, “Look, we’re both gonna need food after this, all right? So just...breathe. Order us something. Stay with me.”

Cali finally exhales, slow and shaky, like she’s been holding her breath since the moment she walked in. Her shoulders loosen just enough, and when she nods, it feels like we’ve reached some kind of truce.

She stays still for a moment longer, staring at me like she’s trying to read something I’m not ready for her to see. Then, in a voice so raw it cuts straight through me, she whispers, “Don’t scare me like this. I can’t lose you too.”

The words settle deep, heavy in my chest, looping in my head in a way I’m not prepared for. Can’t lose me?

I don’t ask her to clarify. I don’t think I can handle hearing her walk it back .

She finally moves off me, stepping away, leaving cold air in her wake. My body is still burning, and I’m painfully aware of every place her warmth touched me, but my mind isn’t on that anymore. It’s stuck on what she said.

Why does it matter if she loses me?

I’m the guy who cooks dinner, who helps her figure out boardroom bullshit, who keeps himself busy enough to stay sane. But beyond that, I’m nothing. Just background noise.

She’s probably just afraid. After losing her parents, her stepmom, who wouldn’t be? I’m convenient. Familiar. Safe.

That’s what I tell myself.

Later, after we’ve demolished two plates of pasta and half a pizza, Cali insists on checking my hand again. Carefully, she unwraps the gauze, her expression softening as she studies the wound.

“It’s deep,” she murmurs, concern edging her voice.

I shrug it off. “Just press the edges together and slap a bigger band-aid on it. It’ll heal.”

“It’ll scar,” she warns, voice gentle but firm.

I smirk, forcing casualness. “Wouldn’t be my first.”

She doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even smile. Instead, her eyes search my face, quiet, unguarded, unreadable.

“What did they do to you in there, Connor?”

I don’t flinch, but something inside me locks down tight. “Trust me, Cali, you don’t want those nightmares.”