Page 65 of Sweet Sinners
Connor
Herpalmburnsagainstmy skin, pure fucking torture.
I want to lean into her touch, close my eyes, and let myself soak in the warmth. I want to demand to know why she was breathlessly moaning my name behind her door right before I knocked—if it was really me filling her thoughts and driving her wild. But I shouldn't ask. I shouldn't want to know.
Because knowing—being right or wrong—would change everything. And I'm not sure if I can handle that.
Cali is the only one who truly has my back, the only person who sees beyond the twisted cautionary tale I've become. IfI blur the lines between us, I risk losing her. And losing her would mean losing everything.
Even if we weren't tied together by our messed-up family history, I can't drag her down with me. She's stepping into a role that demands respect, and the last thing she needs is my fucked-up reputation casting shadows over her. I won't let myself be the reason her world falls apart. I couldn’t live with myself if my presence destroyed the empire she was born to rule.
No matter what comes to light, no matter if someone else finally owns up to the murder of our parents, the whispers will never stop. People will always look at me sideways, convinced my hands are stained with their blood.
And beyond that, there's the real reason this goddamn monitor is strapped to my ankle.
Despite the powerhouse attorneys Cali’s grandparents hired, the judge didn't buy my claim of self-defense Self-defense, he said, doesn't stretch from the first punch to the third, or the tenth. By then, it's just violence.
Fighting was always my addiction. My mother warned me about it relentlessly, saying it would be my downfall. God, I should've fucking listened to her. Instead, I swung fists like my life depended on it, and when prison swallowed me up, that finally became true. Dante knew it. I knew it. That first fight behind bars had been survival, pure and simple. But it escalated, turned into a twisted spectacle until even the guards started betting on me.
I became their entertainment. Brad Pitt in fuckingFight Club.
Until someone didn't get back up.
Reporters say I got off easy—that I murdered my mother and stepfather in cold blood and, not satisfied, I went ahead and did it again inside.
A cold-hearted killer.
That's all the world sees when they look at me.
But not her. MyAngeldoesn't look at me like everyone else does—not anymore. Not after nights spent in this place I'd sworn never to return to, reliving memories I wanted buried forever. She was supposed to fade into the background, just another ghost haunting this mansion, yet instead, she's filling all my empty spaces with something dangerously close to hope.
And that's the fucking problem—hope. It doesn't belong here, not between us, not in this strange limbo we're trapped in. All we're doing is dancing around lines we shouldn't cross, tangling ourselves in a mess we'll never be able to unravel. Whatever this is between us—this raw, hungry tension—it won't lead anywhere good. It'll only burn us both.
Cali’s fingertips linger on another scar, tracing the jagged skin like she’s trying to memorize every dark moment it took to make it. It's too gentle—too intimate—so before I realize what I'm doing, I turn and grip her wrist, pulling her hand from my body.
"I don’t need you to kiss them better, Cali," I mutter, the words harsher than I mean them to be. "I’m not a kid. I can handle a few scars."
I try to make it sound casual—unaffected—like the scars are meaningless, like her touch doesn't burn through every layer I've carefully constructed around myself. But her breath catches, betraying that she sees right through my bullshit.
And honestly, so do I.
Yet, she doesn't pull away. She doesn't break free from my grasp or retreat. Instead, she stays right there, her hand trembling slightly in mine, her lips parted softly in surprise or challenge—I can't fucking tell. Her eyes hold mine, the color impossibly deep, vivid like clear skies I’ve almost forgotten.
Fuck, she’s beautiful. Dangerous and beautiful, like the flower I’ve taken upon myself to nurture in the greenhouse. One wrong move and it could end me.
I tighten my grip, pulled deeper into her gravity, unable to look away even as every instinct screams at me to run.
"You can be grown up and still need someone to be gentle with you," she murmurs, her voice soft, hesitant. "Are there…more?"
I pause, swallowing hard as memories burn the back of my throat. "Not every scar leaves a mark on your skin," I say quietly.
Her eyes soften, cracking something deep inside me before she steps closer, crossing every boundary I thought I had. She slides her arms around my waist, pulling me against her like she needs this more than I do, like she can erase the last three years with a single embrace. My muscles tense automatically, my body conditioned to expect pain, not comfort—but she holds on tighter, refusing to let go until the fight bleeds out of me.
"Cali," I warn softly, voice strained.
"Shut up and let me hold you," she whispers fiercely, her breath burning hot through the thin fabric of my shirt. "You spent three years locked away without anyone touching you like this. Three years without family—without me. I never welcomed you home, never told you how fucking glad I am that you're here. I failed you."
Her words slam through me, breaking walls I didn't even know I'd built. My heart pounds violently in my chest, a relentless drumbeat echoing in my skull. She's right—it's been so goddamn long since anyone touched me without cruelty or hidden motives. My breath shudders out of me as I slowly wrap my arms around her, closing my eyes as her warmth invades every dark corner of my soul.
