Page 76 of Sweet Sinners
The guilt stabs deeper, twisting in my gut like a blade. Self-defense is the story my lawyers sold the judge—the tidy excuse that cleared their consciences—but I know the real truth. My truth. Eventually, I'll have to sit Cali down and tell her every brutal detail. Because those punches weren't just about survival. Most weren't even close. They were blood and sport—violence just to feel alive, an escape from the numbness of knowing no one gave a damn if I bled out on that cold concrete floor.
The officers nod, taking her statements, the USB, all of it, before slipping Cali a piece of paper scribbled with a case number. She’s all sharp edges and professionalism, even as they continue ignoring me completely. But when one of them reaches for a donut, Cali cuts him off with ice in her voice, practically baring teeth as she says they've already collected their "tip" by frisking me.
Goddamn, she's vicious.
How the hell did I overlook her all these years?
Why did I see her as nothing more than some fragile porcelain doll who obediently danced for her daddy? She only visited during holidays and that one fucked-up summer when I was neck-deep in fights, bleeding out rage on anyone who looked at me wrong. Cali was perfect in all the ways I wasn't, and even though my mother never said it, I always felt the comparison. Resented it. Resented Cali for being born into wealth she never asked for, for going away to boarding school, as if that had ever been her choice.
I never once stopped to think how lonely my angel might’ve felt. Never imagined how desperately she must've wanted attention from a father who barely looked her way.
Guilt churns hard and heavy in my chest, and I swallow it down, bitter as whiskey and just as strong.
I lean against the counter, eyes fixed helplessly on her every careful movement. My lips part, ready to thank her, maybe even tease her until that tension breaks and she smiles again—but before I can make a sound, she turns abruptly, shoulders rigid with some unknown hurt, and strides toward her office without a backward glance.
What the hell just happened? Why's she suddenly icing me out?
“Cali—” Her name slips out softer than I intended, frustration gnawing at the edges of my voice. She doesn't answer. Doesn't even slow down. The door clicks shut behind her, louder and harsher than it should be, echoing like the final note of an argument I didn't even realize we were having.
Fuck.
Chapter thirty-four
Cali
Ineedtostaythehell away from him.
All morning, I couldn’t stop staring. Connor didn't bother putting a shirt on, now that he's shown me his scars it's like he doesn't care, strutting around half-naked like he knew exactly how much it was distracting me. It's like he wanted to derail my thoughts—erase the fact he's my stepbrother, blur every boundary until all I saw was him. A half-naked guy shouldn't make me lose my mind, but it’s Connor, and it's way too easy to forget every boundary we've ever had.
It didn’t help that the cops treated him like dirt earlier. Watching their dismissive glances and the casual disrespect felt like a razor sliding under my skin, and I wanted to shred every one of them for it. If theyact that way out here, in public, what the hell did he endure behind bars, where no one was watching?
God, I need to refocus. I have a job to do, suspects to narrow down, and a killer to catch. Obsessing over Connor, imagining his hands on me, isn't going to help. I need to get him out of my head, forget the heat that coils through me every time he’s near, and just do my fucking job.
But even as I tell myself to walk away, memories from last night push their way back in. The weight of his arm around my waist, his breath hot on my neck, and how I felt him harden against me. My body is still buzzing with the ghost of his touch, the rough way he whispered my name in his sleep. He could’ve just slid my shorts aside and shown me exactly what those fingers could do, exactly how good his cock would feel stretching me, claiming me…
Fuck, we’d been so close.
I wanted—no, I needed—him to lean into me, to murmur that perfect, filthy command in my ear. Tell me to be his good girl and finally take what I've been aching to give him for way too damn long.
But he won’t. He’ll freeze up, push me away, and I don’t think I could survive that rejection right now. It’d crush me, shatter what little pride I have left.
I can’t afford that.
So I bury myself in work instead, because waiting for Connor to break me might just kill me first.
Hours pass as I sift through files and emails, narrowing down suspects until I’m left with a messy handful of possibilities. Some board members, Jackson mainly—hell, practically everyone on the board is tangled in my doubts. Anna lands firmly in the "slim chance" column because all I have on her are careless errors and missed lunch dates she always cancels last minute. She's polite enough, but something in herconstant avoidance gnaws at me. Still, murder? It feels like a stretch. She’s hiding something—but aren't we all?
I glare at my notes, frustration clawing under my skin. Whoever’s responsible has something bigger at stake—power, money, secrets. Someone careful. Someone smart. My father’s death cost the company dearly, and killing him doesn’t make financial sense for most of these suits. But who am I missing?
I turn back to his email, digging deeper, pulling up every document I can find, until a scent drifts into the office, something warm and mouth-watering. My stomach clenches, a reminder that I haven't eaten all day. Blinking away the haze, I notice the office door hanging open. Did Connor sneak in and open it himself, or did he bribe Maya into helping? I can't picture her willingly doing him any favors, but maybe he convinced her I was starving myself again.
Following my nose, I pad quietly down the hall, feeling more like an intruder sneaking scraps than the woman who actually owns the place. I pause in the doorway, hesitant and silent, studying the curve of Connor’s shoulders as he moves around my kitchen. My heart kicks up when I realize he still hasn’t bothered putting a shirt on.
“Hungry?” His voice curls around me, velvet-edged and smug, as if he's known I've been lurking this whole time.
My stomach growls, answering for me, and heat blooms across my cheeks. Connor glances over his shoulder, that smirk deepening when he sees me lingering there in the doorway like a stray, waiting to be fed.
God, he knows exactly what he's doing to me, doesn't he?
