Page 56 of Sweet Sinners
Because I do know what I’d do.
I’d run straight to him. I’d cling to him, praying he had a plan, a weapon, anything to keep me safe.
And that terrifies me more than the movie ever could.
The final fight scene plays out on screen, the impossibly large, seemingly indestructible villain refusing to die, and it’s too much.
I snap.
I launch myself fully into Connor’s arms, burying my face against his chest, gripping onto his shirt like it’s a lifeline.
"He should be dead already!" I exclaim, my voice muffled against his shoulder.
Connor tenses beneath me, his breath catching for half a second before he recovers. "Cali…"
"Why isn’t he dead?!" I demand, my words coming fast, frantic. "He’s been shot! And stabbed! And she hit him with—oh my god, what evenwasthat?!"
Connor huffs out a laugh, low and rough, but I can feel the tension radiating off him, the way his hands twitch like he’s resisting the urge to hold me in place. "Just watch the ending. She’ll make it."
"If that guy’s still moving…"
I trail off with a whimper, pressing closer.
Connor’s fingers gently lift my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes before he slowly turns my head toward the screen. Reluctantly, I watch as the final girl gains the upper hand. Despite being bloodied and battered, she’s relentless. With a decisive slice, she cuts the killer’s throat, then shoots him square in the chest. She doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t second-guess. Just does what needs to be done.
And then she limps away, lighting a cigarette like she barely broke a sweat, barely survived, before scoffing at the flashing police lights closing in around her.
I exhale, relieved—only for the music to shift ominously.
The screen flickers.
No. No, no, no—
I watch in horror as the camera zooms in on the killer. He’s not dead.
He clutches at his throat, rips open his shirt to reveal a bulletproof vest, then snatches a gun from a fallen officer and disappears into the night like a goddamn phantom.
I snap toward Connor, shoving at his shoulder.
"He’s still alive!" I practically screech.
Connor barely reacts. He just shrugs, maddeningly calm. "He’s just a character, Cali," he says, like it’s that simple. Like my heart isn’t racing and my skin isn’t crawling. "It’s all make-believe. You’re safe here. With me."
I’m panting, my body still wired from the tension. Every nerve ending buzzing. My gaze flicks toward the darkened hallway behind the couch, half-expecting to see a masked figure standing there, waiting.
Nothing.
No shadowy figure, no bloodied knife.
I force in a slow, steady breath, then another, and finally, my body starts to register that the movie is over. That there’s no real threat here, only the lingering pulse of fear still drumming through my veins.
And suddenly, the exhaustion crashes into me.
I slump against Connor, my face pressing into the warmth of his shoulder, my body limp, drained.
"That was a terrible choice of movie," I mutter into his shirt.
"Cali," he says, his voice low, careful.
