Page 43 of Sweet Sinners
Like she actually cares?
That hits harder than any wound.
I watch her carefully, staying silent as she tends to my hand. While I’m trapped in a spiral, lost in shadows, she’s steady, methodical. Her fingers move deftly, wrapping gauze, securing tape, but then she pauses. Takes a shaky breath. Looks down at her hands.
They’re covered in my blood.
A sharp shudder crashes through me, and nausea twists my stomach. For a second, my vision swims, tilting on its axis. I can’t do this again—not here, not with her. Blood in this house has always haunted me, dragging me straight back to that moment, those lifeless bodies sprawled across the floor. I tear my gaze away, fixating on the ceiling, forcing slow, steady breaths into reluctant lungs.
Some shrink once said I might have PTSD from finding my mother and my stepfather like that. I’d brushed him off, shrugged it away. Told myself it was nothing, that knives were the only trigger. But it’s not just knives, it’s blood. Always the fucking blood, staining these walls, staining my memories.
Cali’s voice slices through the haze. "Are you about to pass out on me? Because I swear to God, Connor, I will call a hospital—"
"I can't leave," I snap, harsher than intended. The ankle monitor’s weight tightens around me like a shackle. "You know the rules."
She narrows her eyes, defiant, every word etched with steel. "If it’s life or death, you’re damn right you’ll leave. And if that means fighting officers or bending rules, I’ll handle it."
I try to shake my head, dismiss her, brush her off, but Cali won’t have it. She grips my chin, fingers firm yet careful, forcing my eyes to hers.
“Look at me, Connor,” she orders, voice low but sharp as a blade. “You’re all I’ve got left.” The confession costs her, and I watch her swallow down whatever pride kept her from admitting it before. “I need you whole. So you’re going to see a doctor, you’re going to wear the damn gloves, and you’re done being reckless with yourself. Got it?”
It’s not a request. It’s a demand, ironclad and unyielding. But beneath her frustration lies something more raw, something that burns hotter and deeper.
Her fingers dig deeper into my chin, forcing me to face the truth in her eyes. She shifts slightly on my lap, breathing unevenly, and for the first time, I really see her, the pressure she’s carrying, the cracks in her armor, the fight she wages just to keep from breaking apart.
She’s lonely too.
I’ve been so wrapped up in my own ghosts, in my own loss, I never stopped to wonder if maybe she was just as haunted. If coming back here was just as painful for her as it was for me. That maybe this mansion doesn’t only trap my demons, but hers too.
Maybe she ran from this place for a reason, the same way I’d leave it if I had a choice.
“Tell me you hear me,” she demands again, quieter now. And this time I hear the fear beneath the strength, the silent plea not to leave her alone in this hell.
I swallow, the knot in my throat burning. “I hear you,” I murmur, reaching up with my good hand, my thumb brushing gently over her cheek, pushing back a loose strand of hair. Her eyes soften, just for a heartbeat, and the guarded mask slips enough for me to see the girl beneath, the one I’ve never truly noticed until now.
“Take a breath, Calliope.”
“Don’t you dare tell me to—”
“I get it,” I interrupt, my voice rougher than I intend. “Plenty of people think I should be six feet under, forget the hospital. But trust me, this looks worse than it is. Fingers bleed like hell, but give it an hour. It’ll stop.”
She clenches her jaw, gaze fierce, as if she’s afraid I’ll vanish if she blinks. So I soften my voice, pushing gently, “Look, we’re both gonna need food after this, all right? So just...breathe. Order us something. Stay with me.”
Cali finally exhales, slow and shaky, like she’s been holding her breath since the moment she walked in. Her shoulders loosen just enough, and when she nods, it feels like we’ve reached some kind of truce.
She stays still for a moment longer, staring at me like she’s trying to read something I’m not ready for her to see. Then, in a voice so raw it cuts straight through me, she whispers, “Don’t scare me like this. I can’t lose you too.”
The words settle deep, heavy in my chest, looping in my head in a way I’m not prepared for. Can’t lose me?
I don’t ask her to clarify. I don’t think I can handle hearing her walk it back.
She finally moves off me, stepping away, leaving cold air in her wake. My body is still burning, and I’m painfully aware of every place her warmth touched me, but my mind isn’t on that anymore. It’s stuck on what she said.
Why does it matter if she loses me?
I’m the guy who cooks dinner, who helps her figure out boardroom bullshit, who keeps himself busy enough to stay sane. But beyond that, I’m nothing. Just background noise.
She’s probably just afraid. After losing her parents, her stepmom, who wouldn’t be? I’m convenient. Familiar. Safe.
