Page 27 of Sweet Sinners

Chapter twenty-three

Connor

I fumble with the ingredients, my fucked-up finger turning every task into a Herculean effort. The simplest motions, gripping a knife, twisting open a jar, become a battle I’m barely winning.

Prison flashes through my mind, uninvited.

Every corner was a threat, every closed door a promise of violence, unless it was my own cell door.

I’d never been so grateful for steel bars.

Lately, I wonder if zoo animals feel the same way.

If they find some twisted comfort in knowing the bars keep the real predators out, that the people on the other side can only watch, take pictures, throw peanuts. Not that it makes captivity any better.

The guys who wanted to fuck me up would stroll past my cell, their eyes brimming with malice, waiting to catch me close enough to shank. They’d taunt me, promise they’d get me before trial, because rich boys always slip through the cracks of justice.

I’d be dead if it weren’t for Dante.

The yard, the cafeteria, the work detail, he was there.

He convinced the guards to pair us up, kept me from walking blind into an ambush.

He taught me to keep my head up instead of down, to watch, to move like I had a right to be there.

And when he saw what fighting did for me, how it burned the fear out of my system, he made sure I got more of it.

Fights made him money, and they made me feel free.

It worked for everyone, until it didn’t.

Until I hit too hard. Until my opponent didn’t wake up.

I inhale slowly, forcing the memory back down.

My hand drifts to my lower back, fingers absently tracing the scar just above my kidney, a breath away from where the shiv stopped.

Four attempts. Four shallow punctures. Not deep enough to kill, just enough to make me understand.

I never sought revenge in the ring, but I learned.

I learned that weakness would bury me, that if I wanted to survive, I had to fight like I meant to.

It was the only reason I walked out of that place alive.

The sound of the door clicking shut yanks me back. I turn, catching the wary gaze of one of the maids. She lingers just a second too long, eyes full of something—hesitation, maybe distrust—before she scurries off like I’m something to be avoided. Like I don’t belong here.

Trust doesn’t come easy in this house.

The only one who doesn’t look at me like I might snap at any moment is the gardener.

We’ve spent hours working side by side, hands in the dirt, sweat in our eyes.

Joe is a a no-bullshit kind of guy, straight to the point, which I appreciate more than I’d ever admit.

I don’t know if he likes me, but we have an unspoken understanding.

We don’t fill the air with unnecessary conversation. We just work. That’s enough.

He’s been showing me the lay of the land, what to trim, what to leave alone, what’s growing wild and unwelcome.

The greenhouse is the only place that makes me feel… steady. I don’t know if it’s because it reminds me of my mother or if it’s just the distraction I need to forget how my life turned out this way.

Angel’s trumpet is my latest discovery. My favorite, actually. It’s beautiful—delicate, otherworldly—but also deadly. Ingesting even a small amount could kill you, so I have no idea why my mother was growing it. Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe she did. Either way, I can’t stop looking at it.

It reminds me of Cali.

I’ve taken extra care of it. It’s sensitive to the cold, so I’ve been making sure it’s protected. The gardeners have kept it thriving all these years, but now, I want to be the one to look after it. I want to see it bloom under my hands.

I want to hold it.

I want to witness how beautiful it can become when it’s nurtured properly.

Even if it kills me.

I scan the recipe again, double-checking that I haven’t missed anything.

The stew simmers, rich and fragrant, the steam curling into the air.

I grab a spoon, give it a cautious taste, then reach for the spices, tweaking until the balance is just right.

A little more heat, a little more depth.

I let the spice settle on my tongue, that slow burn I’ve missed more than I realized.

God, I forgot what this felt like. The freedom to experiment, to build flavors, to savor something just because I can.

“Hard at work, I see? ”

Cali’s voice pulls me from my thoughts.

I glance back, smirking. “Hope you’re in the mood for Korean.”

Her brows lift in curiosity. “Can’t say I’ve tried much.”

I stir the pot, letting the thick broth coat the spoon. “This one’s a winner, cheesy, comforting. You’ll like it.”

She steps closer, drawn in by the aroma, and I catch the way her eyes flicker with something softer, something warmer.

“Connor, you should seriously consider becoming a chef,” she muses.

“You love it, you’re good at it, and…” She trails off, watching me, her expression shifting into something I can’t quite name.

“You always seem more at peace when you’re cooking. ”

For a second, the air between us changes.

Her gaze meets mine, deep and unwavering, pulling me in. Her lips part slightly, a breath slipping free, her cheeks tinged with the softest blush. It’s nothing. It should be nothing. But suddenly, it’s everything.

I swallow hard, my throat tight, my pulse tripping over itself.

Clearing my throat, I force out a rough, “I enjoy it.” My voice comes out lower than I intended. “Not sure anyone would actually hire me, though.”

She tilts her head, considering.

I exhale, giving a small shrug, the words slipping out more easily than I expected. “I love playing with flavors. And now that I’m…out, I have so much more to work with. I missed food that actually tastes good—not just the kind that keeps you alive.”

Her lips press together, her eyes searching mine. “Connor…” she whispers.

I shake my head, turning back to the stove.

“Food…it’s something everyone takes for granted until it’s gone,” I admit quietly.

“The flavor, the luxury of taking your time with a meal, actually tasting the heat, th e sweetness, the salt, it’s all a privilege.

” I pause, my grip tightening on the spoon. “And it’s the one I missed the most.”

Cali doesn’t say anything right away, but I can feel her watching me, like she sees the parts of me I try to keep hidden. And for the first time, I don’t hate it.

"Like I said, you should be a chef."

I counter with a wry smile, "And like I said, who the hell would hire me?"

Cali’s voice dips, softer now, carrying something dangerous. A promise, a temptation. "I can always flex my power, you know. You’ve helped me so much."

A laugh catches in my throat, dry and disbelieving. "You say that like you aren’t already paying me."

"It’s different," she insists, her gaze locked onto mine, unshaken. "You can’t earn your own way right now. You still need things, and you deserve to have them. You’ve been by my side, helping me fix everything that’s falling apart at work, and I want to do the same for you."

She shouldn’t be able to get to me like this. Not with just a few words.

But my stomach knots anyway, my mind flashing back to her perched on my lap, arguing fiercely like she wasn’t afraid of me, like she didn’t give a damn about how I might react—just that I was hurt, just that she could fix it.

"So, the food?" Her voice drops a note lower, teasing now, her hip brushing lightly against mine.

"Right," I say, forcing my focus back on the dish, stirring with more force than necessary. "It’s almost ready. Tteokbokki. You can check the recipe if you’re worried it’ll be too much for you. "

Cali laughs, bright and easy, stepping back. "I can handle it. But first, I’m getting out of these work clothes and into something more comfortable."

She turns, heading toward the stairs, and for a second, just a split second, I swear I feel the ghost of her fingers graze my lower back.

A shiver rips through me.

I’m still getting used to the idea of touch that isn’t meant to hurt. That doesn’t carry the weight of violence or consequence. And hers—soft, fleeting, uncalculated—feels dangerous in a completely different way.

No, she doesn’t mean it like that.

She can’t.

Cali doesn’t see me that way. She made it clear she was interested in someone else, only turning him down for the sake of professionalism. She could be with anyone. And yet the thought of her laughing with another guy, getting close, kissing, fucking—

A tight, ugly knot forms in my stomach.

It shouldn’t matter. Regardless of our parents dying, she’s still my stepsister. That doesn’t change. Even if we weren’t raised together, even if she was always away at boarding school while I was busy raising hell, the fact remains: she is off-limits.

Just like the angel’s trumpet blooming in the greenhouse.

Untouchable. Forbidden. Beautiful and dangerous.

I need to shake this. Stop twisting our closeness into something it’s not.

It’s been three years, but that doesn’t give me the right to misinterpret what’s happening between us. To take something innocent and warp it into something reckless.

Because recklessness leads to trouble.

And trouble ?

Trouble is the last fucking thing I need.

But my body doesn’t seem to give a shit.

Just her nearness, the lightest touch, a few simple words, and suddenly, I’m standing here, gripping the counter, willing my blood to cool.

I glance down, scowling at the obvious problem straining against my jeans.

"I am not ruining this," I mutter through clenched teeth, glaring at my cock like that alone might will it into submission.