Page 32 of Sweet Sinners

Chapter twenty-seven

Connor

S cream turns out to be an easier watch for Cali, but for me? It’s torture.

Not because of the movie—because of her.

The entire evening has felt eerily like a date, a thought that should be horrifying. She’s my stepsister. She doesn’t look at me that way. She was just scared because of the horror flick I carelessly chose.

That’s what I keep telling myself.

Truth is, I wanted something on the screen that was more disturbing than the chaos brewing in my own head.

Something to drown out the way she’s been haunting my thoughts—because when she was in my lap, practically riding my thigh, her breath hot in my ear, her small whimpers filling the silence… I didn’t push her away.

I should have.

But now, as she shifts at the other end of the couch, I feel the loss like a phantom limb.

Twice, she edges closer—once when Drew Barrymore meets her tragic end, and again when Ghostface reappears.

Our knees brush, just a small touch, barely anything.

But it stirs something deep, something that makes my fingers twitch with restraint.

That selfish, reckless part of me wants her back on top of me.

I want to see her like that again—cheeks flushed, pupils blown, looking at me like I’m the only thing keeping her grounded.

Like she needs me. It’s the kind of reaction most people would shy away from, something reserved for the twisted or for those who’ve been swept up in too many dark romance novels.

But I’m not stupid.

Cali isn’t twisted. The fact that she’s keeping her distance now tells me she realizes we crossed a line.

And yeah, it was wrong. I shouldn’t have gotten hard from her sitting in my lap like that—not that I could control it.

It feels like a goddamn miracle that I restrained myself from kissing her when she looked at me with those wide, vulnerable eyes.

Or earlier, in the kitchen, when she held my gaze, hesitation flickering across her face like she wanted to step into me instead of away. Like she wanted me to shield her from the imagined threat of the movie’s serial killer.

But I can’t be that guy for her.

Even though it would be so easy to reach for her now. To shift just a little closer, to pull the popcorn bowl toward me and let our hands brush. To see what would happen if we let this thing between us tip over the edge.

Because I can tell—she feels it too .

If she didn’t, she wouldn’t have looked so damn shocked when she realized she was on my lap. She wouldn’t keep shifting toward me in small, unconscious movements, like she wants me to be her protector, her safe place.

I need to stop thinking like this.

I clear my throat. "Is this one better?"

She hums softly, reaching for more popcorn. "It has Matthew Lillard, so yeah, it’s better."

I smirk, inching just a little closer. A fraction of an inch, but enough. I’m damn Icarus, drawn to the sun, knowing full well I’ll burn. I should keep my distance. Should play it safe.

But I don’t want safe.

I want her .

"He’s not the bad guy, is he?" she asks, eyes still fixed on the screen.

"Why do you think he is?"

"Well, he’s never around when the murders—or the attempted murders—happen. He’s just mysteriously missing. And also, whose house doesn’t have the garage off the kitchen if it’s in the back? He would’ve seen her walk by and should’ve heard his girlfriend screaming for help. How did no one hear her?"

She’s rambling, piecing it together, her frown deepening.

I can’t help but watch her, admiring the way her mind works. "It’s just a movie."

"Yeah, I get that, but still…" she trails off, chewing on her lip, her mind still spinning.

"If you’re up for a horror where the female lead actually outsmarts everyone, I’ve got the perfect movie in mind," I offer, watching her reaction.

She eyes me warily .

"Maybe more than one," I add, voice dipping lower. "I’ve got a lot of catching up to do, you know?"

"Don't even think about it. I'm not your horror movie buddy," she grumbles, crossing her arms, but there’s a lightness in her voice that wasn’t there before.

I should let it go, take the win that she’s relaxed, but the words stick to my ribs.

She says it like it’s a joke. Like there’s some other person I could be watching movies with. But she’s the only one here. The only person in this whole damn house who actually sees me, not just as some obligation or shadow of the past.

She’s the only buddy I’ve got.

The thought stings more than I expect.

I glance at screen, but my mind is nowhere near the movie anymore.

True crime channels have been reaching out, eager to hear my side of the story—some sensationalized, others posing as justice-seekers.

I’ve shut them all down. Even if clearing my name meant reclaiming some semblance of freedom, I won’t do it at the cost of Cali’s future.

I’ve already been reckless once before, back when I found our parents. I can’t afford another mistake.

"Hey." Cali nudges me with a sharp elbow to my side.

"What?" I blink, turning to her.

"You’re not even watching," she huffs, frustration laced in her voice, but there’s curiosity there too—like she knows exactly what kind of thoughts I’ve been drowning in.

"How can you tell?"

"Because you're staring past the TV." She narrows her eyes. "I know when you zone out."

I don’t answer, just smirk a little, shaking my head.

She exhales, brushing her hair over one shoulder. "I guess this is a good time then…"

I arch a brow. "Are you about to make me pause this?"

She waves her hand dismissively, but I hit pause anyway. If she’s about to say something, I don’t want her missing any crucial parts—or the best kills.

She circles around to my side of the couch, and my pulse kicks up in response. I don’t know why. She disappears into the kitchen for a second, rummages through something, then comes back holding a small bag, shaking her head to herself.

"I meant to give this to you last weekend, but it completely slipped my mind," she says, tossing it lightly onto my lap.

I frown, picking up the bag. "What is it?"

"Just open it," she says, avoiding my gaze like she’s afraid of my reaction.

I tug it open and pull out a small, framed piece of fake stained glass. The colors melt together—deep blues and soft golds, depicting an ocean at sunset. The edges catch the dim light of the living room, casting fractured reflections against the walls.

For a second, I can’t speak.

My fingers skim over the smooth surface, tracing the edges carefully.

"You picked this up before my injury?" I ask, my voice quieter than I mean for it to be.

"Yes," she confirms.

"When you were out with that guy?" I don’t bother masking the edge in my voice.

Cali rolls her eyes, exasperated. "I wasn’t out with him. He just showed up after I was done shopping."

That shouldn’t ease something inside me, but it does .

I keep my eyes locked on the stained glass, letting my thumb stroke the edges again, careful. Careful like this thing matters more than it should.

"Cali…" I swallow, words failing me for a beat. " It's perfect. "

"You like it?" she asks, softer now, stepping a little closer.

"Yeah." I nod, extending my hand toward her without thinking.

She hesitates, then places her palm in mine, and something about the small act sends heat surging through my chest.

Her fingers are warm, delicate, but sure.

I squeeze lightly, something tight forming in my throat.

"Thank you," I say, meaning it in a way I haven’t meant anything in a long time. "This is…amazing."

She’s amazing.

She went from doubting me to letting me in, from barely speaking to me to seeking me out when she needs comfort, from keeping her distance to putting things in my hands that remind her of me.

She’s dangerous.

The kind of dangerous that doesn’t come with a warning. The kind that sneaks up on you, settles under your skin, and makes a home there before you even realize you’re lost.

And I am. Completely.