Page 39 of Sweet Sinners

Chapter thirty-three

Connor

S leep is absolute hell.

Every time I drift close to the edge, Cali shifts in my arms, and suddenly I’m either painfully hard or obsessively replaying every detail, convinced I’ve missed something crucial.

Twice I force myself out of bed, carefully untangling my limbs from hers, and cross the room to check if Nathan’s gotten back to me yet.

He hasn’t had much luck.

Nathan—my cellmate for a year, one of Dante’s contacts—is someone I’d trust with my life.

Hell, I already have. He’s sharp, the best damn hacker I know, responsible for scheduling our fights and handling the bets that flowed through the prison like dirty secrets.

But this time, even he’s hit a wall. The threatening number was a disposable cell, dead-end, inactive now.

No traces, no leads—just another ghost slipping through our fingers.

The second number led to a local landline, but nothing Nathan could uncover went deeper than what the cops would already know.

Frustration simmers beneath my skin, restless and violent. I’m chasing shadows, desperate to protect the girl who’s burrowed herself so deep into me I don’t know how to breathe without her anymore. Yet every lead only brings us back to zero.

I glance at Cali sleeping peacefully in my bed, her face soft in the moonlight. For a moment, I let myself wish that none of this mattered—that it was just her and me, untouched by the ugliness that won’t stop hunting us.

But wishes never got me anywhere.

Only fighting has.

When Cali starts to stir against me, my body betrays me instantly.

I’m painfully hard, desire burning through me, uninvited.

I grit my teeth and tell myself it’s just morning wood—a normal, physical reaction—not because her perfect ass has been pressed against me all night, not because of those soft, sleepy sounds escaping her lips as she stretches against me.

I tighten my arm around her, fighting for control. "Stop moving, Cali."

She freezes instantly, a small gasp muffled by the quick press of her hand over her mouth. The realization that I might've frightened her punches through my chest. Shame floods me, bitter and sharp. I pull back immediately, sliding out of bed, clearing my throat to hide the guilt clawing at me.

"Let's get ready," I say roughly, avoiding her eyes. "Then we can call the police. "

"Okay," she whispers.

I pause by the door, one hand gripping the frame tightly as I glance back at her. She’s still frozen, curled up in my sheets, small and vulnerable. Something deep in my gut twists, and I force out the words. "I'm sorry if I scared you."

"You didn't," she says softly, her voice steady despite the tension humming through the air.

I almost wish I had scared her. Maybe it would make this easier—if she feared me, hated me even, it might keep her away and stop me from craving everything I can't have. But the thought of seeing terror in her eyes again makes me sick. She’s only just stopped looking at me like the monster who ripped apart her life, and I'd do anything to avoid putting that fear back into her gaze.

Distance I can handle. Restraint, boundaries, self-denial—I can manage all of it.

But not her fear.

Never again.

Shaking my head, I stalk into the bathroom and let the water run blistering hot, hoping it burns away my guilt, my desire—everything but the memory of her body warm and trusting in my arms. I give in beneath the water, gripping myself hard, desperate to erase her from my mind.

It doesn’t fucking work.

Nothing ever does.

By the time I return to my room, Cali’s already gone—probably slipped back into her own room to get ready.

I rake my fingers through my hair, frustration simmering beneath my skin.

Tugging on a pair of jeans, I struggle to pull the leg over my ankle monitor, muttering curses as I finally get dressed .

I gather everything we’ll need and then call the non-emergency line, but the second they hear my name, the conversation goes south fast. They hang up before I can even fully explain, and after the third attempt, I'm bluntly warned I'll face charges if I abuse their lines again.

"Fucking perfect," I mutter under my breath, tossing my phone aside.

Downstairs, I find Cali standing in the kitchen, arranging donuts on a plate.

My pulse skips as I take her in—the delicate day dress hugging every gentle curve, accentuating the softness I had pressed against me all night.

Memories flood my senses, the ghostly warmth of her body in my arms, her hips pressed back into me, the quiet little sounds she made when she thought I wouldn’t hear.

I swallow hard, blood rushing to my cock as I swiftly move behind the kitchen island, grateful for the barrier hiding just how much she affects me. Jerking off in the shower clearly did nothing to ease the relentless need she stirs.

She lifts her gaze to mine, eyes wide and impossibly blue beneath thick lashes. Damn, those eyes could unravel every shred of self-control I've built. Her tongue darts out, swiping nervously over her bottom lip, and my hands tighten around the countertop.

"Donuts," she murmurs, sliding the plate toward me, her voice low and breathy—almost a challenge.

"Cali…" I exhale sharply, forcing myself to keep the hunger out of my voice. With feigned nonchalance, I open the box, grabbing the plainest glazed donut I can find. "This isn't our usual breakfast."

She shrugs softly, fiddling with her ponytail as if anxious to keep her hands occupied. "I've got cops on the brain. Did you reach them?"

"They threatened to fine me for wasting their time." I smirk darkly. "Even joked about stepping off the property to get them here quicker. "

Her eyes widen, panic surging as she moves closer, nearly stumbling over herself. "Connor, you can't—that would—"

"I'm not doing it," I interrupt gently, my voice firm but reassuring.

She eyes me carefully, twisting that ponytail around restless fingers. "I'll call."

"Yeah, probably smarter," I agree, biting into the donut.

Sugar hits my tongue, syrupy and thick. I focus on that sickly sweetness, needing a distraction from her dress, her restless eyes, her goddamn presence—temptation that's simmering way too hot, pushing me dangerously close to burning myself.

I swallow hard, needing another bite, another sticky mess to keep my hands busy and off her skin.

She turns away, voice crisp and confident as she speaks into the phone, handling business in the no-bullshit way that's pure Cali. When she hangs up, her lips twitch into a tiny, satisfied smile as she reaches for a strawberry-frosted donut.

My eyes lock helplessly on her mouth, and when her tongue darts out, licking delicately along the sugary edge, my breath stalls. Heat coils low in my gut, so intense and sharp I have to turn away before I forget myself and touch her—right here, right now.

The cops arrive quickly, their hands moving roughly over my body, searching me as Cali watches.

Her gaze follows every slide of their palms, irritation sparking in her eyes when their fingers edge too close to my crotch.

She scoffs loudly, annoyance sharpening her voice.

"Planning to frisk me next, officer? I'm the one who called. "

The cop backs off, gesturing for me to drop my hands. Cali's eyes roam leisurely over my bare chest, lingering on my abs just long enough to make my pulse spike. Her gaze lifts, meeting mine with a smirk that's pure trouble. Damn, she's actually flirting right in front of the fucking police .

She's killing me.

She faces the cops, handing over the evidence she dug up and detailing exactly how it implicates someone in the office for her father's and my mother's deaths.

Her voice is firm, controlled, but beneath that strength, I see the shadows of exhaustion she's trying to hide.

She holds up the USB drive, promising them everything they need is right there.

The officers are polite enough—to her, anyway.

To me, they're ice cold, gazes sliding right past like I'm invisible.

Or worse, like I'm exactly the criminal they want me to be. Cali sees it too, and irritation tightens her jaw, sharpening her tone as she tells them that when the evidence checks out, my ankle monitor needs to come off. She insists every punch I threw behind bars was self-defense, fallout from their mistake, and she won’t stop fighting until the truth finally hits daylight.

Self-defense.

The guilt stabs deeper, twisting in my gut like a blade.

Self-defense is the story my lawyers sold the judge—the tidy excuse that cleared their consciences—but I know the real truth.

My truth. Eventually, I'll have to sit Cali down and tell her every brutal detail.

Because those punches weren't just about survival.

Most weren't even close. They were blood and sport—violence just to feel alive, an escape from the numbness of knowing no one gave a damn if I bled out on that cold concrete floor.

The officers nod, taking her statements, the USB, all of it, before slipping Cali a piece of paper scribbled with a case number.

She’s all sharp edges and professionalism, even as they continue ignoring me completely.

But when one of them reaches for a donut, Cali cuts him off with ice in her voice, practically baring teeth as she says they've already collected their "tip" by frisking me.

Goddamn, she's vicious.

How the hell did I overlook her all these years ?

Why did I see her as nothing more than some fragile porcelain doll who obediently danced for her daddy?

She only visited during holidays and that one fucked-up summer when I was neck-deep in fights, bleeding out rage on anyone who looked at me wrong.

Cali was perfect in all the ways I wasn't, and even though my mother never said it, I always felt the comparison.

Resented it. Resented Cali for being born into wealth she never asked for, for going away to boarding school, as if that had ever been her choice.

I never once stopped to think how lonely my angel might’ve felt. Never imagined how desperately she must've wanted attention from a father who barely looked her way.

Guilt churns hard and heavy in my chest, and I swallow it down, bitter as whiskey and just as strong.

I lean against the counter, eyes fixed helplessly on her every careful movement.

My lips part, ready to thank her, maybe even tease her until that tension breaks and she smiles again—but before I can make a sound, she turns abruptly, shoulders rigid with some unknown hurt, and strides toward her office without a backward glance.

What the hell just happened? Why's she suddenly icing me out?

“Cali—” Her name slips out softer than I intended, frustration gnawing at the edges of my voice. She doesn't answer. Doesn't even slow down. The door clicks shut behind her, louder and harsher than it should be, echoing like the final note of an argument I didn't even realize we were having.

Fuck.