Page 32 of Sweet Sinners
Chapter sixteen
Connor
Caliislethal,sharpwhere everyone else bends, composed where most would crumble. Watching her during that call with Nathan, I saw it all in vivid clarity. The way she gathered each word, dissected and sharpened it into blades she could wield effortlessly against the board. She wasn’t just adapting to this life; she was owning it.
And damn, if that didn’t make it impossible to look away.
I exhale sharply, dragging a hand down my face. No. I can’t go there. She’s Cali, still caught up in this disaster with me, looking at me like I’m an obstacle instead of the ally I’m trying to be. Whatever stirred inside me, whatever reckless spark just ignited, it needs to beextinguished.
I push away from the counter, needing to move, to escape the tension under my skin. My feet carry me toward the kitchen on autopilot, retracing a path that’s become too familiar. Around me, the mansion looms cold and silent, vast rooms filled with things that don't belong to me. The air is heavy, scented with the sterile polish of money and ghosts of cologne I've never worn.
Even with the lights blazing, shadows cling to the corners, hollowing out the space. It feels haunted, grieving a history it refuses to forget.
Just like me.
I open the fridge, scanning its contents, but my hands freeze mid-reach, and suddenly I’m not here anymore. I’m back in that prison kitchen, standing in front of the walk-in cooler, reaching for vegetables, pretending this is better than stirring a pot of oatmeal that always tasted like cardboard.
It never fucking worked, though. Escaping into routine never drowned out the whispers or the laughter or the footsteps closing in behind me.
"Pretty boy thinks he's too good for us," a voice sneers from behind.
Another scoffs, louder, rougher. "What, mommy and daddy knock you around? Is that why you’re such a quiet little shit?"
I don’t look up. Don’t answer. Just grab the broccoli and carrots like they’re a lifeline, hoping silence will buy me a way out. It never does.
"He looks like someone already taught him a lesson," another voice drawls, amusement bleeding through.
They laugh, moving closer. My skin prickles even though the air is ice-cold. The space around me shrinks, tighter, suffocating me slowly.
"Rich boy probably doesn’t even know how to fight," someone says. "Maybe we should teach him."
The air thickens, and my pulse kicks hard, echoing inside my skull. Keep your head down, keep quiet, don’t react. But when I finally try to slip past their circle, a shoulder slams hard into mine, nearly knocking the tray from my grip.
"You like knives, pretty boy?" The one in the center—older, built like a fucking wall—grins cruelly, the promise of violence glinting sharp in his eyes.
Stay down. Stay quiet. Stay still.
I repeat the words over and over in my head even when the punches land, even when my vision fades, even when they leave me beaten, unconscious, locked behind that freezer door. By the time another inmate found me, I’d spent a week in the infirmary, nursing broken bones and a shattered pride.
"Connor!"
The voice tears through the memory like a blade. My head jerks up, air rushing back into my lungs, the kitchen swirling briefly before settling back into reality.
Cali leans against the doorway, eyes narrowed, scanning my face like she can see exactly where my head just was. Exhaustion clings to her—it's in the slight slump of her shoulders, in the tired way she props herself up against the frame. But there’s something softer, too. A careful warmth creeping into her expression, a smile tugging faintly at the corner of her mouth, like she’s almost relieved to see me.
“You’ve earned Amazon privileges,” she announces casually. “And we’re getting takeout. Your pick.”
I blink, momentarily stunned by how fucking normal she sounds. Like we’re two people who do this all the time, as if there aren’t landmines hidden beneath every step we take toward each other.
She steps into the kitchen, not even pausing long enough for me to process before dropping another bomb. “Also, can you drink without getting in trouble? Because I brought beer.”
Her words hang between us, absurdly easy,too easy. My brain scrambles to catch up, still caught halfway between that kitchen in my nightmares and the girl standing in front of me, holding out a night of beer and takeout like we’re just normal.
I have no fucking clue what to do with normal.
But I nod anyway, quickly ordering pizza from a place down the street, a simple choice that feels safe, familiar. By the time it arrives, Cali’s already out on the terrace, a couple of beers popped open, setting the scene so effortlessly that it seems like she's done this a thousand times.
I step out into the crisp evening air, the coolness against my skin grounding me. The terrace is quiet, the distant hum of Boston’s traffic creating a soft backdrop. The pool glows faintly blue, reflecting a sky blurred by city lights, stars invisible behind the haze.
