Page 42 of Sweet Sinners
Chapter twenty-one
Connor
I'mwrestlingwiththeglass, fighting to get the edges just right, but the tools I finally got from Amazon feel clumsy in my hands. Glass is different than metal, sharper, unpredictable, unforgiving. I hiss through my teeth when a shard slices from my fingertip down to the base of my finger, a clean line that immediately wells up with blood.
Curses spill out, rough and biting, the kind of language that belongs in prison cells rather than the polished halls of a mansion. I barely register footsteps in the hallway, staff members who pause, hesitate, then retreat. Blood pools in my palm, thick and hot, trickling down my wrist before dripping onto the floor in heavy, crimson drops.
"Come on, rich boy. Can't handle what we're dishing out?"
The voice slams into me, echoing through my skull just before a fist crashes into my face.
I stagger, trying to stay upright, but the hits keep coming. A boot catches me in the gut, driving the air from my lungs in one brutal rush. Pain flares, bright and blinding, blood coating my tongue with the sickening, metallic taste of defeat.
"You'd better toughen up if you wanna last a day in here," another inmate taunts, his foot slamming into my ribs.
They circle me, vultures waiting to pick me apart. The guards don't step in, they won't. To them, I’m already guilty. Already damned. Accused of murdering my mother and stepfather, leaving my stepsister orphaned. They don't give a shit if these men tear me apart.
"Can't even stand, huh? What’s wrong, useless without a knife?"
Another blow lands against my back, forcing my spine to arch in agony. I clamp down hard, teeth grinding, refusing to give them the satisfaction of hearing me break. They want me to scream, to beg, to prove I'm just another weakling they can devour. But I'll never give them that.
"Enough!"
The voice rips through the chaos, powerful and unyielding.
I brace for the next hit, curled into myself, but instead, the energy shifts—the kicks stop, footsteps shuffle back. The group parts like a dark tide, and a tall, imposing figure steps forward, ink and scars mapping his skin.
Dante.
Without hesitation, he grips my arm, hauling me to my feet with one swift pull. He eyes my battered form, assessing the damage. "Get to the clinic," he orders. "Then find me at dinner. You hear?"
"Why bother?" I rasp, the words burning my throat.
Dante’s stare hardens, something like respect flickering briefly in his gaze. "Because you don’t back down, even when you’re losing. I respect that. Stick close to me, and I'll make sure you survive this place."
"Connor! What the fuck!"
Cali’s voice slices through the memory, sharp enough to jerk me back into the present.
My head snaps up, breath ragged, reality spinning around me like the aftermath of a hit. For a second, I’m not even sure where I am—prison walls blur into mansion walls, past merging with present. My vision tunnels, ears buzzing, pulse hammering loud enough to drown out everything.
I glance down. Blood drips steadily from my palm, staining the floor in vivid red droplets that make my stomach twist.
Then Cali’s there, grabbing my hand, pressing against the wound as blood smears across her fingers. "Jesus, Connor," she snaps, panic edging every syllable, frustration sharpening her voice like a blade. "You're bleeding all over the place!"
"I'm fine," I grit out, voice rough, barely audible even to myself.
She tightens her hold, eyes blazing, furious and fierce. "This isn’t prison!" She twists sharply, shouting over her shoulder, "Someone get me a first aid kit, now!"
Footsteps hurry off, but Cali doesn't budge. She doesn’t give me space, doesn’t allow me to hide. Instead, in a move that steals every thought from my head, she climbs into my lap, straddling me so I have no choice but to meet her stare head-on.
Her chest rises and falls fast, cheeks flushed, eyes glittering with something raw, something real. "Talk to me," she demands, voice shaking with intensity. "How the hell did you let this happen? What were you thinking?"
I try to shift the tension, force a smirk. "Glass is trickier than metal," I say tightly.
She shakes her head sharply, lips parting on a harsh breath, frustration bleeding into her voice. "Wear fucking gloves, Connor," she bites out, her fingers pressing harder, sending pain—and something else—sparking through my veins. "You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to be reckless like nothing matters. You’re not bulletproof!"
Her grip tightens, holding me grounded, steady, like an anchor I didn’t realize I needed. I should push her away. I should tell her to back off and laugh this off like it's nothing. But I can't. Because the way she's staring at me right now?
