Page 1 of Sweet Sinners
Connor
Prologue
I can barely see through the blood dripping down into my eyes, thick and warm, blurring my vision in streaks of crimson. Every shallow breath rattles painfully in my chest, my ribs screaming with each careful step. The driveway stretches ahead, swallowed by shadows that spill from the edges of the house like ink bleeding across paper. Each movement toward the side door feels heavier, my pulse thundering so loudly it drowns out everything else.
Just get inside. Clean up. Pray no one notices.
Mom warned me—voice tired and strained, disappointment etched deeply into her face—that the next time I came home bruised and bloody, she'd send me away. Maybe to therapy like my dear stepsister, or rehab, some place where people try to fix broken kids who don’t deserve fixing. She said it with a desperation I’d never heard before, the sharp edge of her patience finally worn down to nothing. And honestly, I couldn’t even blameher.
I’d promised her I’d try. Swore I wouldn’t fight again, wouldn’t find myself walking through this door with blood on my hands. But promises have a way of breaking—especially mine.
My breath hitches as I slip silently through the staff entrance, the heavy wooden door easing shut behind me with barely a whisper. The marble floor is cold beneath my feet, the house eerily silent and dark, thick with the sort of stillness that clings like a fog. My chest tightens, a sensation of dread snaking slowly around my spine.
It’s too quiet.
No housekeepers shuffling down the hallway, no muffled voices drifting from the living room, no laughter or quiet music from my stepfather’s evenings spent sipping scotch and pretending we’re the perfect family.
Nothing.
Maybe they gave everyone the night off. They did that sometimes—when they wanted privacy, when Mom wanted space from the constant eyes watching her every move. I should’ve expected it, really. My stepdad loves his orchestrated, carefully staged evenings behind closed doors.
Still, something feels wrong. A sinking unease creeps up my throat as I move through the dim corridor toward the grand staircase, my heartbeat echoing louder in the silence.Just reach your room, clean up, hide the bruises beneath layers of cotton and lies.
But then something catches my eye near the living room door—a flash of dark crimson, glossy and wet, seeping out from under the wood. My blood runs cold.
Blood.
It pools slowly onto the polished hardwood, creeping through the seams, staining everything it touches. Every cell in my body freezes, panic rising hot and choking in my throat. My feet carry me toward it, drawn bysome sickening instinct, even as every fiber of my being screams to run in the opposite direction.
"Mom?" My voice trembles, barely audible, fragile with hope and dread and disbelief all at once. "Mom, you okay?"
Silence.
The dread inside me sharpens, twisting painfully as I step closer, my pulse a deafening drumbeat in my ears. I stretch a shaking hand toward the door, pushing it open slowly—inch by excruciating inch.
And then my heart shatters.
My mother lies sprawled across the Persian rug, her limbs twisted, her body an unnatural stillness. Her throat is a gaping, violent wound, the knife jutting grotesquely from her pale skin, glinting coldly in the lamplight. My stepfather lies just beyond her, the same brutal wound marking him like some sick signature.
Blood soaks the rug Mom loved, spreads across polished floors, seeps into every crevice and corner. I stand frozen, my brain desperately trying to comprehend what my eyes refuse to accept.
They look broken. Destroyed. Like someone took the one thing I loved most and tore it to shreds just to prove they could.
"No..." The word is weak, useless, spilling from my lips in a hoarse whisper. "No, no, no—"
My legs give out, knees hitting the floor with a sharp jolt of pain. Her blood pools around me, slick beneath my shaking hands as I reach for her. Tears blur my vision, the horror carving itself into my bones. I pull her limp form into my arms, pressing my palm helplessly against the warm rush at her throat, desperately willing life back into her empty eyes.
"Mom," I choke out, panic splintering my voice. "Please—please don't leave me. You can’t go. You can't."
She doesn't move. Doesn't breathe.She’s cold, her warmth already fading beneath my trembling fingertips. Pain erupts through my chest, a grief so raw and overwhelming I can barely draw air. My throat closes around a sob, and I bury my face against her hair, the familiar scent of vanilla and lavender clashing grotesquely with the coppery tang of blood. Her blood and mine blending until they're the same. Until I can't tell them apart anymore.
Sirens wail, piercing the silence, their shrill cries slicing the quiet into chaotic ribbons. Flashing lights spill through windows, bathing the scene in pulsing red and blue. I don't move. I can't. I stay clutching her, my body shaking with sobs, her blood mingling with mine until there’s no separating us, no pulling apart this tragedy.
The front door bursts open, heavy footsteps pounding, voices shouting commands I can’t process through the roar of pain inside my head.
Strong hands grip my shoulders, pulling me back from her, wrenching me away as I scream, as I fight and thrash and beg to stay. My fists hit flesh, desperate and blind, but they’re stronger, overpowering me easily. I'm dragged away, pressed roughly to the ground, the cold bite of handcuffs closing around my wrists, harsh and unforgiving.
The cops shout orders—telling me not to move, to comply—but it all fades into a blur, meaningless noise beneath the screaming agony in my chest.
