Page 25 of Sweet Sinners
Prison taught me control, taught me restraint. Because there wasn’t another option. The first weeks, I kept my head down, thinking silence would protect me. But silence doesn’t make you invisible. It makes you a target. A victim.
I still remember my first fight. The way knuckles cracked against my ribs, the taste of blood filling my mouth. Instinct took over, adrenaline surging until I was hitting back, harder, faster, wilder—because in there, violence wasn’t just survival. It was currency. Reputation.
And once I tasted it, I never stopped.
I learned to strike first, to swing before someone else could put me down. Some were looking for a fight; others, they had something to prove. So did I. So I proved it, over and over again, until fighting was second nature, woven deep into my bones.
When the verdict came back not guilty, it didn’t even matter. I was already trapped. Already tainted by the blood on my hands and the scars on my knuckles. One last fight made sure of that.
I dig harder now, soil flying, desperate to bury memories along with the dirt. Sweat drips down my spine, shoulders burning from exertion. Good. The pain is grounding. It’s real, tangible, pulling me from the edge.
But even as my body screams, my mind drags me back to Cali. Her voice, sharp and unyielding. The loose strands of strawberry blonde hair falling free from her ponytail, glowing under the dim kitchen light. The challenge in her piercing blue eyes, her stubborn chin lifted defiantly. Even exhausted, she was effortlessly beautiful. Untouchable.
She’s in my fucking head, and I don’t know how to get her out.
With a rough breath, I toss the spade aside, bracing my hands on my knees, forcing myself to breathe through the chaos. It’s been years since someone got under my skin like this—since someone crawled inside and shook the foundation of the giant fortress I buried whatever was left of my hear in. But Cali? She’s there, tearing down every barrier I have, brick by brick.
Wiping sweat from my forehead, I straighten, inhaling sharply. I need to get a fucking grip. This—whatever this twisted attraction is—can’t happen. She already thinks I’m dangerous, already watches me like she’s waiting for me to prove every damn assumption she’s ever made.
Maybe she’s right.
Maybe she should stay far away from me.
Before I do something we both regret.
Chapter thirteen
Cali
"Ifyou'djustletme finish—" I start, my patience fraying dangerously thin, but Jackson—who I'd mistakenly thought would be on my side after our brief moment in the elevator—cuts me off sharply.
"No." He leans forward, eyes narrowed, voice dripping disdain. "You're new here, sweetheart, so sit back and learn something. You admitted we're the experienced ones, maybe you should start taking notes."
My jaw clenches so hard pain shoots down my neck. "Excuse me?"
The rest of the board continues squabbling like children over their precious fleet of jets, blind to the bigger picture I'm laying out. Too wrapped up in their egos to see what's right in front of them.
But fine.
If they want drama, I'll fucking deliver.
Slowly, deliberately, I rise from my chair, gripping the heavy wooden back—it’s not even a damn rolling one—and drag it across the polished floor. The grating screech slices cleanly through their petty arguments, snapping the room into dead silence.
Jackson stiffens, blotchy red climbing his neck. Several board members look at me warily, caught off guard. Good. Let them feel unsettled. Let them realize I won’t sit back and quietly fade into the wallpaper.
I step aside, swipe my screen, and project my presentation onto the wall.
"Clearly, we all need a refresher on basic meeting etiquette," I say, voice calm but razor-sharp beneath the surface. "When someone's presenting, the expectation is that everyone listens. You have questions, notes, concerns—write them down. We'll address them when I'm finished. Like adults."
Mr. Sinclair offers a tight nod, but Jackson, still riding high on his own ego, scoffs. "And why exactly should we—"
"Interesting," I interrupt smoothly, feigning surprise. "I distinctly remember learning back in elementary school to raise my hand when I wanted to speak. Should we bring that practice back, Jackson? It might help keep our meetings from dragging into the next millennium."
A few stifled laughs slip out around the table.
Jackson's face darkens, jaw set tight enough to break teeth, as he grudgingly sinks back into his seat.
This isn't the playground he thinks it is, and I'm not here to play nice.
