Page 30 of Sweet Sinners

Chapter twenty-six

Cali

C onnor is too comfortable. That’s the takeaway here.

Lounging on the couch in pajama pants and a black tank top, beer in one hand, pizza in the other, he looks completely at ease, like he belongs here.

And maybe that’s what throws me off the most—how seamlessly he fits into this scene, how normal he looks.

If his pants weren’t long enough to cover the monitor strapped to his ankle, I could almost forget. Almost.

I spot a scar on the inside of his shoulder, and curiosity flares, sharp and insistent. How did he get it? Prison? A fight? Something worse? But the urge to ask fades just as quickly. The answers wouldn’t do us any good tonight .

I take a deep breath and shove another bite of pizza into my mouth, forcing myself to focus on something else.

"I picked out some horror flicks that might catch your interest—or totally repel you," Connor says, talking through a mouthful of pizza. "Either way, they’ll keep your mind off work."

"Yeah," I murmur, my eyes drifting toward the screen. It’s an older movie, that much is obvious, but Connor hits play without hesitation.

Less than ten minutes in, and I jump so hard I nearly spill my beer.

Connor bursts out laughing—a real, deep laugh, one that lights up his whole damn face. His eyes crinkle at the corners, cheeks flushing red as he clutches his stomach, completely unguarded for once.

I elbow him, trying to save what little dignity I have left. "Shut up! It was a jump scare!"

"You definitely jumped," he teases, his grin stretching even wider.

I huff, sinking further into the couch, my beer pressed to my lips as I glare at him. "You picked this movie, and I already warned you—horror and I don’t mix well."

"It’s more distracting if you actually watch," he smirks.

And I try—I really do—but my attention keeps drifting back to him.

The rough scruff along his jaw. The way his muscles flex when he stretches out, completely at home in his space.

He sprawls across the couch, taking up more than his fair share, like he owns it, and some twisted part of me likes that.

Likes the easy way he carries himself, the warmth rolling off of him.

The realization is unsettling.

It’s not just how he looks—it’s the way he is.

The way he makes sure I’ve eaten, the way he cooks without expecting anything in return, the way he builds instead of breaks.

He doesn’t just step in when I need help—he’s there before I even have to ask.

How could I have ever thought he was capable of something so monstrous?

And yet...

Charm and good looks can be deceptive.

People believed Ted Bundy, after all.

I push the thought away, shaking my head as I sip my beer. But it lingers. Just like my suspicion that someone close to me is the one leaking information to the press.

Anna is at the top of my list, but the logic doesn’t track.

We’ve been friends since high school. I know her.

Or at least, I used to. Lately, she’s been distant, slipping up, making comments about Connor that rub me the wrong way.

Still, that doesn’t mean she’s behind any of this.

Maybe she’s struggling with something else.

Maybe I should reach out, outside of work, and ask her to grab coffee.

I make a mental note to do exactly that.

Then, another thought takes root, colder, sharper.

The house staff.

Maya has been around since I was born, but there are new faces here now. People I don’t know as well. People who have full access to my home, my life. The idea makes a chill run down my spine.

"Are you cold?"

Connor’s voice pulls me back, grounding me.

I clear my throat. "What?"

He rolls his eyes, shifting closer as he drapes a blanket over both of us. "You shivered. Is it the cold, or are you actually scared?"

I snort. "I’m not scared. It’s just a movie."

"Sure," he says, unconvinced, eyes glinting with amusement.

I try to focus on the screen, but it’s no use. The suspense builds, the tension thickens, and before I know it, I’m inching closer, every kill making me more on edge .

Then—jump scare.

I yelp, grabbing onto his arm without thinking, my face burying into his shoulder.

"Connor!"

His body shakes with laughter as I squeeze my eyes shut, cursing myself.

"It’s just a movie, Cali," he teases, throwing my own words back at me. His smirk tells me he’s thoroughly enjoying this.

And as much as I want to be annoyed, I don’t let go.

I mutter under my breath, forcing myself to keep watching the movie, but something distracts me—a slow, deliberate pressure on my thigh. A tickling sensation that has nothing to do with fear.

I tell myself not to look, to stay focused on the screen as the tension builds, as the music swells, but I can’t. Not when my skin is burning beneath his touch, not when I’m suddenly hyperaware of every inch of space—or lack thereof—between us.

Then, just as the killer emerges from behind a door, I jump, my fingers digging into Connor’s arm on instinct.

The pressure on my thigh intensifies.

I glance down. His hand is there, warm and firm, his thumb stroking over my skin in slow, absentminded circles. But his eyes—his eyes are still locked on the TV, like he hasn’t even noticed. Like this touch is casual, normal.

Like this isn’t completely throwing me off balance.

It should be harmless. We’re just sitting here. Watching a movie. That’s all this is.

Except—I’m practically draped over him now. One thigh slung over his hip, my arms wound around his like I’m trying to mold myself to him, my head resting on his shoulder like I belong there.

We’re too close .

Too much.

But then, a scream rips through the speakers, and all rational thought flies out the window. I flinch, pressing closer, clinging to him like his presence alone could shield me from whatever horrors the screen throws at me next.

"Connor," I whine, my voice shaking, equal parts fear and frustration. "I wanted depth!"

He chuckles, the sound low and amused, vibrating against my cheek. "We’re more than halfway through," he promises, his voice warm, coaxing. "You’ll make it. Squeeze as hard as you need to."

I’m already squeezing, clutching onto him like he’s my last tether to sanity. Another victim meets their end in the dumbest way possible, and my frustration bubbles over. I should've gone for a damn romantic comedy.

"Why aren’t the police there yet?" I hiss, watching the screen through narrowed eyes. "Why do they always trap themselves?"

Connor turns to me, a lazy half-smile playing at his lips. "Fear makes you lose all sense of logic. But what about you? What would you do if you realized a killer was inside?"

I hesitate, shifting against him. "No chance of that here—not with our security. Plus, I actually lock my doors," I grumble, deflecting.

"Okay, but forget all that. What’s your move?" he presses. "Do you run outside, try to make it to the road, hope for help? Or do you hide?"

I shiver. Not from the movie, but from something else—something in his voice, in the way he’s looking at me, like my answer matters.

"I don’t like that question," I admit, barely above a whisper.

He nods, like he gets it, like he knows the answer I won’t say out loud.

Because I do know what I’d do .

I’d run straight to him. I’d cling to him, praying he had a plan, a weapon, anything to keep me safe.

And that terrifies me more than the movie ever could.

The final fight scene plays out on screen, the impossibly large, seemingly indestructible villain refusing to die, and it’s too much.

I snap.

I launch myself fully into Connor’s arms, burying my face against his chest, gripping onto his shirt like it’s a lifeline.

"He should be dead already!" I exclaim, my voice muffled against his shoulder.

Connor tenses beneath me, his breath catching for half a second before he recovers. "Cali…"

"Why isn’t he dead?!" I demand, my words coming fast, frantic. "He’s been shot! And stabbed! And she hit him with—oh my god, what even was that?!"

Connor huffs out a laugh, low and rough, but I can feel the tension radiating off him, the way his hands twitch like he’s resisting the urge to hold me in place. "Just watch the ending. She’ll make it."

"If that guy’s still moving…"

I trail off with a whimper, pressing closer.

Connor’s fingers gently lift my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes before he slowly turns my head toward the screen.

Reluctantly, I watch as the final girl gains the upper hand.

Despite being bloodied and battered, she’s relentless.

With a decisive slice, she cuts the killer’s throat, then shoots him square in the chest. She doesn’t hesitate.

Doesn’t second-guess. Just does what needs to be done.

And then she limps away, lighting a cigarette like she barely broke a sweat, barely survived, before scoffing at the flashing police lights closing in around her.

I exhale, relieved—only for the music to shift ominously .

The screen flickers.

No. No, no, no—

I watch in horror as the camera zooms in on the killer. He’s not dead.

He clutches at his throat, rips open his shirt to reveal a bulletproof vest, then snatches a gun from a fallen officer and disappears into the night like a goddamn phantom.

I snap toward Connor, shoving at his shoulder.

"He’s still alive!" I practically screech.

Connor barely reacts. He just shrugs, maddeningly calm. "He’s just a character, Cali," he says, like it’s that simple. Like my heart isn’t racing and my skin isn’t crawling. "It’s all make-believe. You’re safe here. With me."

I’m panting, my body still wired from the tension. Every nerve ending buzzing. My gaze flicks toward the darkened hallway behind the couch, half-expecting to see a masked figure standing there, waiting.

Nothing.

No shadowy figure, no bloodied knife.