Page 4 of Sweet Sinners

It wasn’t what I’d meant to ask, but it was the question that escaped—one that felt safer, even though nothing about him, or this moment, felt safe at all.

Connor’s body went rigid, tension rippling through him like a stone dropped into still water.

He took one final drag, then ground out the cigarette in the ashtray, twisting it sharply, deliberately.

Silence stretched between us, the kind that begged to be broken.

But I refused to be the one to shatter it. So I waited.

Finally, he exhaled, the sound heavy, tired, defeated. “I ask myself the same damn thing every day.”

The words hung between us as he turned slowly to face me.

Moonlight cut across his features, harsh and unforgiving, and for the first time, I saw clearly what three years in prison had done to him.

That sharp jawline was still there, but rougher now, shadowed by the scruff of a beard he hadn’t bothered to maintain.

The boyish charm I remembered had vanished, replaced by something darker, sharper—dangerous in a way I couldn’t pinpoint.

Faint lines marked his forehead, proof of too many nights spent awake, thinking too much, sleeping too little.

But those eyes—those piercing green eyes—hadn't changed. They still held the same troubled intensity, haunted by questions he didn't have answers to.

"It's not like I had a choice," he said, his voice low and unsteady, gaze locked hard onto mine.

"I can't leave because of the house arrest. But even if I could…

where would I go? I've lost three fucking years, Cali.

Friends, opportunities, freedom—all because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. "

Bitterness edged every word, raw and jagged. I couldn’t tell if it was anger or exhaustion, or maybe a harsh mix of both.

A heavy silence filled the space between us, the kind that swallowed everything whole. I should’ve felt sympathy—maybe even pity—but all I managed was unease. The boy I hardly knew had become a man I couldn't begin to understand, and it left me feeling exposed and strangely vulnerable.

"Why this house?" I finally asked, voice softer than I'd intended. "Your mom owned other properties. They could’ve sent you literally anywhere else."

He sighed roughly, raking a hand through his hair, pulling his shirt tighter against the tense muscles beneath.

"They thought family would help. Reintegration, adjustment, whatever bullshit they’re calling it.

But being here?" A bitter laugh escaped him, hollow and humorless.

"It's like living in a fucking ghost story.

Every room, every corner is another reminder of that night. "

I swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling heavy in my chest. I understood exactly what he meant, even if I refused to admit it. Every time I looked at him, I saw that night—the blood, the pain, the chaos.

The life that had crumbled around me because of it.

“I don’t want you here,” I said, my voice cold and steady despite the tightening in my chest.

His jaw hardened, but he didn't flinch. Instead, he tilted his head, studying me with that maddeningly calm expression. “Trust me,” he said, voice low and razor-sharp, “if I had a choice, I wouldn't be here either.”

He took a step closer, eyes fierce, burning into mine.

“I lost my mom, too,” he whispered harshly, voice shaking with emotion.

His eyes shone, but whether from tears or fury, I couldn't tell. “You think you’re the only one suffering? The only one haunted by memories that won’t leave you the fuck alone? ”

The words sliced into me, sharper than expected. My anger faltered, tangled with guilt I didn't want to acknowledge. He was right—he'd lost just as much as I had. Maybe more. But the pain, the rage, that deep, desperate need to blame someone—it drowned out logic and reason.

“You were accused of murdering our parents, Connor,” I snapped, my voice cracking beneath the weight of it all. “How can you expect me to forget that? To pretend it never happened? To welcome you back as if—” My words broke off, choking me.

His jaw tensed further, muscles working as he turned away. Silence filled the space, stretching painfully as his fists clenched at his sides. Then, quietly, with a conviction I hadn’t expected, he said, “I didn't do it.”

Did I believe him?

I wanted to. God, I wanted to. But the questions wouldn’t stop. The whispers, the doubts, the evidence that wasn't enough to convict but was more than enough to ruin him.

His gaze snapped back to mine, sharp and burning, silently pleading. “Look at me, Cali. When you look at me, do you honestly see a killer?”

I froze, his words crashing into me like a freight train. Slowly, almost unwillingly, I lifted my eyes to his. Garden lights flickered softly, shadows sliding over his features, but those piercing green eyes remained steady, unyielding.

I stared at him, desperate for something—anything—that might settle the questions swirling in my head.

I could still see faint echoes of the brooding boy who’d moved into my house, distant and guarded even then.

I'd never known how to speak to that version of Connor, and now the man standing before me was a complete stranger, his eyes shadowed by a loneliness so raw it made my chest ache. He was asking me to trust him, to believe him, and I didn't know how to bridge the gap between who he’d been and who he’d become.

My father had made no secret of his dislike toward Connor; everyone knew that. But was resentment really enough to lead to murder?

My head pounded, the weight of uncertainty pressing painfully behind my eyes. Too many questions. No clear answers. My chest constricted, cracks forming beneath my skin, threatening to shatter me completely.

“I can’t do this,” I whispered, voice barely audible as I broke his stare. Turning sharply, I moved toward the door, each step quicker than the last until I reached the threshold. Cold air gave way to warmth, but nothing soothed the storm raging inside me.

I shut the door behind me, leaning back against the solid wood, breath ragged and uneven. My hands shook as I pressed them to my temples, desperate to block out the thoughts, the questions, the memories.

Even now, with distance between us, I could feel his eyes on me.

And the worst part? I didn’t know if I wanted to believe him or if I wanted to keep blaming him, because it was easier than admitting I might be wrong.