Page 15 of Sweet Sinners
Her smile softens, understanding flickering through her expression. She gently takes the glass from my hand, her fingertips brushing mine in quiet reassurance.
“This isn’t your answer,” she says softly, but with a conviction that cuts deeper than the bourbon ever could. “Not for what you’re facing.”
Her words break through the haze, offering clarity I’d rather ignore, but can’t.
Because she’s right.
Chapter eight
Connor
Daysblurtogetherhere.This mansion feels less like a home and more like a carefully curated exhibit: walls adorned with paintings that whisper old secrets, carpets too plush for comfort. It’s better than a cell, but the anklet biting into my skin reminds me daily that freedom still dangles just out of reach.
The Stavros estate isn’t my prison. It’s something crueler, a gilded limbo. Anastasia and Leonidas do their best, their kindness genuine in a way that makes me feel more like a project than family. I can’t say I’m ungrateful, because I’m not. But this house isn’t mine. It never will be.
I drift through the halls, caught by opulence that feels artificial, sterile. Chandeliers gleaming, polished floors reflecting my shadow, marble statues standing guard like silent judges. This is the illusion mymother bought into when she married Demetrios Stavros, believing we’d finally claimed power, stability and respect. But shadows have a way of lingering, no matter how hard you scrub or polish.
My footsteps slow as I pass an abstract painting hanging on the wall. It’s the kind of piece that looks like chaos until you take a step back. I wonder if that’s what Cali sees when she looks at me. Chaos. A mess she’d rather avoid, a puzzle she has no intention of solving.
But she never truly leaves me alone.
We circle each other endlessly, a dance of sharp glances, loaded silences, and careful, cutting words. She looks at me like I'm a stain on her otherwise spotless world and maybe I am. But beneath all that contempt, something else lurks. Something that looks dangerously close to guilt. I can’t help but wonder if now, with me this close, she’s beginning to second-guess herself, questioning if the monster she built up in her mind was ever real, or just another nightmare she couldn’t shake.
I shove my hands in my pockets and head for the kitchen, the quiet of the house heavy around me, charged with a silence that feels expectant, almost oppressive.
As I round the corner, I hear her voice, soft and low.
She’s standing at the counter, her back to me, scrolling through her phone while her fingertips tap restlessly against marble. Her hair’s pulled into a sleek ponytail, though a few rebellious strands have escaped, softly curling at the nape of her neck. She’s in a crisp white pantsuit, slim slacks perfectly hugging the curve of her hips, the fitted jacket tailored just close enough to send my thoughts veering toward reckless, dangerous ground.
I don’t announce myself. Instead, I lean against the doorway, watching her.
“You’re lurking again,” she says without turning around, voice tight but threaded with a quiet challenge.
“Maybe I’m just enjoying the scenery,” I say, pushing off the doorway and stepping further into the kitchen.
Her head snaps toward me, ice-blue eyes sharpening immediately. “Don’t.”
I tilt my head, letting a lazy smirk tug at the corner of my mouth. “Don’t what?”
“Whatever it is you’re thinking.” She sighs, setting her phone down with more force than necessary. Grabbing a glass from the cabinet, she moves with that familiar stiff grace, every motion calculated, every step deliberate.
I watch her closely, noticing the slight tension in her shoulders. “Rough first day, Cali?”
Her eyes cut to mine. “Like you care.”
I shrug lightly. “Just making conversation. We do share a house now.”
She pours water into her glass, taking a measured sip before meeting my gaze again, her stare cool and unyielding. “Why are you even here, Connor?”
The question hangs heavy between us. Why am I here? I step closer, close enough to catch the subtle scent of her perfume—soft, floral, and deceptively sweet.
“Maybe I wanted to see if you’re as good at ignoring me as you pretend to be,” I murmur, lowering my voice just enough to make it clear this isn’t casual.
Her jaw tightens, blue eyes darkening. She sets the glass down sharply. “You’re exhausting.”
She tries to brush past me, but I catch her wrist, gently turning her back toward me. Her body freezes under my touch, her pulsequickening beneath my fingertips. Her eyes snap to mine, anger blazing but I see through her perfectly crafted mask.
“Calliope,” I say slowly, tasting her name like forbidden fruit.
