Page 72 of Sweet Sinners
She doesn't back down. Instead, she inches her face closer, challenging me. "So, you don't feel anything?"
I want to lie. I want to push her away, tell her the thought repulses me, remind her of all the reasons it's wrong. But after everything she's been through, after all the shit we've seen together, I can't lie to her now. I sigh heavily. "What I feel doesn't matter, Cali. Justice matters. Your father’s legacy matters. Clearing my name—that matters."
Her eyes narrow, frustration flickering in their depths. "Of course it does. Don’t you think I want justice, too?"
"I know you do," I whisper, softening my tone. "But we can't afford distractions. The staff already walks around me like I'm dangerous. If Maya hadn't walked in earlier—"
She holds up a hand, cutting me off. "Don't. It'll just piss me off more." Cali sighs, shoulders slumping slightly, though the fire in her eyes never quite fades. "Fine. You handle the police and your friend; I'll dig deeper into company issues. But for the rest of today, we stay away from each other."
Her lips twist into a small, defiant pout, as if even saying the words is physically painful. And hell, it's painful for me too, because staying away from Cali is becoming the hardest goddamn thing I've ever had to do.
Finally, I force myself to stand, gently lifting her from my lap and setting her on her feet before stepping back. My cock is rock-hard, straining painfully against my jeans, so I busy myself by gathering the scattered papers, pulling the USB drive from the computer, making sure she can't torture herself any further. I hold it up between us.
"Thank you for showing me. Now leave this to me."
"I can handle it," she insists stubbornly.
"I know you can," I concede, holding her gaze. "But you don’t have to. It's my turn to take care of you, Angel. I couldn't protect you all those years, but..." I move closer, gently cupping her cheek, and the way she leans into my touch immediately makes my chest ache. "I'm here now. And I'm not letting anyone hurt you again."
Our eyes lock, the air pulsing hot and heavy between us, a silent war neither of us wants to lose. Eventually, she points firmly toward the door. "Get out."
I nearly laugh. Our feeble attempts at resisting this pull between us are pathetic—almost comical, if it weren't for the crucial evidence she's just uncovered. Because now, we both have work to do.
Once I'm safely back in my room, I realize I've picked up more than just a stack of papers and the USB drive. There's a notebook nestled among them. Cali didn't mention it earlier, and curiosity spikes as I flip it open.
The pages are filled with her handwriting—notes from work, random scribbles, adorable little doodles that make my chest tighten. But then my eyes catch on something else: a neatly written list titled "Pros and Cons of Kissing Connor."
My pulse quickens, heart thudding painfully as I scan the words. The pros outweigh the cons, and the cons themselves don't feel like negatives at all.
Fuck.
We're so screwed. I don’t know if we'll ever truly expose who murdered our parents, but in this moment, it hardly matters. Not with this relentless, forbidden ache building between us. It’s only a matter of time before we shatter, before someone sees, before the whispers begin, tearing Cali down piece by piece.
Groaning, I drop the notebook onto the desk.
I need a cold fucking shower—now.
Chapter thirty-two
Cali
TherestofmySaturday drags by in slow, torturous minutes, each one feeling like an eternity. After choking down leftover pizza, I retreat to bed earlier than usual, but sleep refuses to find me. My mind won’t stop racing, twisting and turning with thoughts of what else might be hidden on that damn USB drive. The uncertainty claws at the edges of my sanity, made worse by Connor’s absence.
When did I become so dependent on a man?
A frustrated groan slips from my lips as I roll to my side, tugging the sheets tighter around me like a shield. But it’s useless. Without Connor here, every noise in the darkness sounds like footsteps,every shadow looms sinister and threatening. Paranoia creeps along my skin, prickling like spiders crawling slowly up my spine.
My mind drifts back to earlier today, in my father’s—my—office, Connor’s steady voice pulling me from the depths of panic. My vision blurring, my hands trembling, air refusing to fill my lungs until he held my face in his hands, guiding me back, steadying my breath with words that only someone who’d lived through hell would know how to speak.
I can’t remember the last time I’d felt panic like that, so raw and uncontrollable. Connor knew exactly how to anchor me, which only makes me wonder how many times he’s faced those demons himself. There's so much I still don't know about his past, about the things he suffered behind bars, or even before then. Up until now, my view of Connor was colored entirely by my father’s words—warnings of a troublemaker, someone spiraling downward, destined for nothing but violence. School expulsions, fights, and eventually prison painted him as a monster—the villain who stalked my nightmares long before I understood why.
But beneath it all, somewhere deep, I knew the truth. Connor could never have done what the world accused him of. Yes, he and my father clashed constantly, their relationship tense at best, nonexistent at worst. But I’d watched how tenderly he’d treated his mother. How he’d looked at her with devotion, with something almost like worship.
Someone who loves like that doesn’t kill so coldly.
Without another suspect, I had no choice but to believe what everyone else did. I needed someone to blame, a place to direct all my hurt, my confusion, my rage.
So, I made him the monster everyone wanted him to be.
