Page 38 of Sweet Sinners

Chapter thirty-two

Cali

T he rest of my Saturday drags by in slow, torturous minutes, each one feeling like an eternity.

After choking down leftover pizza, I retreat to bed earlier than usual, but sleep refuses to find me.

My mind won’t stop racing, twisting and turning with thoughts of what else might be hidden on that damn USB drive.

The uncertainty claws at the edges of my sanity, made worse by Connor’s absence.

When did I become so dependent on a man?

A frustrated groan slips from my lips as I roll to my side, tugging the sheets tighter around me like a shield.

But it’s useless. Without Connor here, every noise in the darkness sounds like footsteps, every shadow looms sinister and threatening.

Paranoia creeps along my skin, prickling like spiders crawling slowly up my spine.

My mind drifts back to earlier today, in my father’s—my—office, Connor’s steady voice pulling me from the depths of panic.

My vision blurring, my hands trembling, air refusing to fill my lungs until he held my face in his hands, guiding me back, steadying my breath with words that only someone who’d lived through hell would know how to speak.

I can’t remember the last time I’d felt panic like that, so raw and uncontrollable.

Connor knew exactly how to anchor me, which only makes me wonder how many times he’s faced those demons himself.

There's so much I still don't know about his past, about the things he suffered behind bars, or even before then. Up until now, my view of Connor was colored entirely by my father’s words—warnings of a troublemaker, someone spiraling downward, destined for nothing but violence.

School expulsions, fights, and eventually prison painted him as a monster—the villain who stalked my nightmares long before I understood why.

But beneath it all, somewhere deep, I knew the truth.

Connor could never have done what the world accused him of.

Yes, he and my father clashed constantly, their relationship tense at best, nonexistent at worst. But I’d watched how tenderly he’d treated his mother.

How he’d looked at her with devotion, with something almost like worship.

Someone who loves like that doesn’t kill so coldly.

Without another suspect, I had no choice but to believe what everyone else did. I needed someone to blame, a place to direct all my hurt, my confusion, my rage.

So, I made him the monster everyone wanted him to be.

I hated him.

Until the moment I didn’t .

Eventually, I grab my phone, typing out a quick email to Dr. Anderson.

But my thumb hovers over send, hesitating.

It's late, for one thing, and I’m not sure I want to reopen the emotional Pandora’s box that comes with therapy.

Not yet, anyway. There’s something dark clawing at the inside of my chest, something I’m terrified to face head-on.

Frustrated, I toss the phone aside and sit up, huffing out a defeated breath. Without thinking it through, I march down the hall toward Connor’s room. I pound on his door, but when he doesn’t answer, I twist the handle and find it unlocked.

He doesn’t notice me immediately, absorbed in whatever he’s doing on his laptop, headphones firmly in place. He’s speaking sharply to someone on the other end of a call.

"I need more than that, man. This matters. You said you owe me, so fucking follow through," he demands, tension lacing every word. "I need names. I need an address. Just point me in the right direction—" He pauses, eyes narrowing. "What do you mean, who's knocking?"

Slowly, he turns around, gaze landing on me as I linger awkwardly in the doorway.

He’s gripping something tightly, but I’m too focused on his expression to pay it any real attention.

With an exasperated sigh, he ends the call abruptly, opens a chat window, and types something rapid-fire before shutting his computer.

His voice softens when he finally speaks again.

"What is it, Cali?"

I swallow, suddenly nervous, shifting my weight.

"I…I can't sleep. Every noise makes me jump, every shadow feels like someone watching me. I know there’s nobody there, but…

" I trail off, embarrassment heating my cheeks.

I can't even look him in the eyes, focusing instead on the carpet, rubbing my toes nervously along the back of my calf.

"Can I sleep here? I'll take the floor, I won’t disturb you, I promise. You can get back to your call."

I bite my bottom lip, considering adding a "please," but Connor cuts me off before I get the chance.

"Get in bed," he orders firmly.

"I’m not kicking you out of your own bed—"

"Get in," he growls softly, the intensity in his voice sending heat rushing through my veins, "or I'll put you there myself."

My pulse spikes dangerously, warmth pooling low in my belly.

Part of me almost wants to test him—to see if he'd actually follow through—but that’s not why I came here.

I came here because I can’t stand to be alone.

Because with Connor, I feel safe—even though this is anything but safe.

We promised distance, promised boundaries, and yet here I am, practically begging him to break every rule we’ve made.

Silently, obediently, I climb into his bed, my heart hammering in my chest as I slide beneath the covers.

"We'll keep our hands to ourselves," I murmur, though whether it’s for his sake or mine, I can’t be sure anymore. "Build a pillow wall or something."

Connor just keeps typing, eyes locked firmly on his screen, jaw tight with tension. "Are you armed?" I ask quietly, needing reassurance even though I already suspect the answer.

He pauses only a second, but it’s enough. "I can’t answer that," he replies carefully, his voice low. The words hang between us, confirming everything without him needing to say more.

I bite my lip, fighting back the urge to warn him—to tell him to behave, to not get himself in more trouble. But honestly, the thought of Connor prepared to defend us is a relief, one that settles warmly inside my chest .

I sigh softly, shifting beneath the blankets. "I never answered your question from movie night."

Connor freezes, fingers hovering over the keys. "What question?"

"You asked if I'd run outside or hide if there was an intruder," I remind him gently.

His voice lowers, cautious. "And you said you didn't like that question."

"No," I correct softly, stifling a yawn as exhaustion pulls at me. "I said I didn't like the first answer that popped into my head." My eyes drift closed, my voice barely above a whisper as I confess, "I'd go straight to you."

"Cali," he warns quietly, his tone strained, almost pleading. "Don't do this…"

"Because you're strong," I continue stubbornly, burrowing deeper into his blankets, inhaling the comforting scent of him lingering on the sheets. "You make me feel safe. Your scars…they mean you know how to survive. You can teach me. You wouldn't let me be stupid like the girls in those movies."

He exhales slowly, his voice a hushed promise in the dark. "I'd never let you be stupid, Angel."

I nod slowly, letting his words—and the nickname that first caught me off guard but now wraps around me like a protective embrace—soothe the restlessness inside me. Gradually, my eyelids grow heavier, lulled by the steady rhythm of Connor's fingertips against the keys.

When I wake, it's to the warmth of something solid curling around me, enveloping me in heat. I jump slightly, startled, until I glance over my shoulder and see Connor’s face inches from mine.

He exhales softly, his breath brushing across the sensitive skin of my neck. "I don't have enough pillows for a wall. "

My heart quickens at his proximity, every nerve in my body suddenly alert. I turn back toward the wall, hyperaware of his firm, reassuring presence behind me. Connor might deny he's one of the good ones, but he is. God, he is. I could do so much worse, even if he believes the opposite.

His hand begins tracing lazy, hypnotic patterns along my side, fingertips grazing the bare skin beneath my shirt.

The gentle caress pulls me closer, drawing me tight against the hardness of his body.

I swallow hard, pulse racing as I realize he's shirtless, and every careful boundary I tried to set crumbles in an instant.

Then again, it was me who promised to keep hands off—he never made such a promise.

"I've got you, Cali," he whispers into my ear, voice husky with sleep. "Relax. You're safe here."

I sigh softly, biting down on my lower lip as a fresh wave of heat blooms low in my belly. "Both of us?"

When I squirm restlessly, he growls low in warning, fingers gripping my hip tighter to hold me still.

"No moving," he says roughly, his voice strained.

A shiver travels down my spine, thrilling and dangerous.

When I obey, he relaxes slightly, tone softening.

"We're both safe. I won't let anyone hurt you. "

"I know," I whisper, melting further into him.

"Then stop worrying. I'm very dedicated to this job," he murmurs, lips brushing my neck in a barely-there kiss. His breath fans across my skin, sending sparks of desire racing through me. "Go to sleep, Angel. Be a good girl for me."

His words ignite something deep inside me—a craving, a need I never knew existed.

Praise has never affected me like this, but hearing Connor say those words, I suddenly want more.

I want him to tell me exactly how good I am.

No. No. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing sleep to claim me before I cross any more lines .

Yet the thought still slips free, whispered softly into the dark. "Do you think our parents would be disappointed?"

Connor doesn't answer. His breathing steadies into a soothing rhythm, his heartbeat strong and comforting against my back, gradually lulling me toward sleep.

I cling desperately to the feeling of his warmth, aware that tomorrow, everything changes.

We're about to shake the foundations, unleash chaos, and nothing good ever comes without a price.

We’re going to get hurt. Something at work, something between us—one way or another, pain is inevitable. But tonight might be our last chance at peace, at calm before the storm.

I'd like to believe my father would be proud of me—of how I’ve taken hold of his legacy, how fiercely I'm fighting to bring him justice.

Even if he’d never approve of whose bed I'm in.