Page 7 of Sweet Sinners
He took a step closer, eyes fierce, burning into mine. “I lost my mom, too,” he whispered harshly, voice shaking with emotion. His eyes shone, but whether from tears or fury, I couldn't tell. “You think you’re the only one suffering? The only one haunted by memories that won’t leave you the fuck alone?”
The words sliced into me, sharper than expected. My anger faltered, tangled with guilt I didn't want to acknowledge. He was right—he'd lost just as much as I had. Maybe more. But the pain, the rage, that deep, desperate needto blame someone—it drowned out logic and reason.
“You were accused of murdering our parents, Connor,” I snapped, my voice cracking beneath the weight of it all. “How can you expect me to forget that? To pretend it never happened? To welcome you back as if—” My words broke off, choking me.
His jaw tensed further, muscles working as he turned away. Silence filled the space, stretching painfully as his fists clenched at his sides. Then, quietly, with a conviction I hadn’t expected, he said, “I didn't do it.”
Did I believe him?
I wanted to. God, I wanted to. But the questions wouldn’t stop. The whispers, the doubts, the evidence that wasn't enough to convict but was more than enough to ruin him.
His gaze snapped back to mine, sharp and burning, silently pleading. “Look at me, Cali. When you look at me, do you honestly see a killer?”
I froze, his words crashing into me like a freight train. Slowly, almost unwillingly, I lifted my eyes to his. Garden lights flickered softly, shadows sliding over his features, but those piercing green eyes remained steady, unyielding.
I stared at him, desperate for something—anything—that might settle the questions swirling in my head. I could still see faint echoes of the brooding boy who’d moved into my house, distant and guarded even then. I'd never known how to speak to that version of Connor, and now the man standing before me was a complete stranger, his eyes shadowed by a loneliness so raw it made my chest ache. He was asking me to trust him, to believe him, and I didn't know how to bridge the gap between who he’d been and who he’d become.
My father had made no secret of his dislike toward Connor; everyone knew that. But was resentment really enough to lead to murder?
Myhead pounded, the weight of uncertainty pressing painfully behind my eyes. Too many questions. No clear answers. My chest constricted, cracks forming beneath my skin, threatening to shatter me completely.
“I can’t do this,” I whispered, voice barely audible as I broke his stare. Turning sharply, I moved toward the door, each step quicker than the last until I reached the threshold. Cold air gave way to warmth, but nothing soothed the storm raging inside me.
I shut the door behind me, leaning back against the solid wood, breath ragged and uneven. My hands shook as I pressed them to my temples, desperate to block out the thoughts, the questions, the memories.
Even now, with distance between us, I could feel his eyes on me.
And the worst part? I didn’t know if I wanted to believe him or if I wanted to keep blaming him, because it was easier than admitting I might be wrong.
Chapter three
Connor
Thegreenhousesmelledlikeearth and regret—rich soil, damp leaves, and the metallic tang of sweat clinging to my skin. The sun wasn't up yet, but the horizon glowed faintly, promising another day I wasn't ready to face. My trowel bit into the dirt beneath the rosebush, each repetitive motion anchoring me to something real. Something better than staring at my ceiling all night, the weight of the ankle monitor pressing into my skin, a constant, punishing reminder that freedom was just another distant memory.
Old man Stavros’s voice still echoed in my head from earlier, sharp and cold:Earn your keep.He'd dragged me out of bed and dropped me here like one of his employees. Maybe that’s exactly what I was now. Manual labor, babysat by thorns and dirt—it wasn't punishment exactly, but it was pretty damn close.
I loosened the soil around the rosebush, sharp thorns grazing my fingers. A bead of blood welled up, bright red, but I didn’t flinch. The sting was a relief, grounding me, drowning out the endless noise in my head.
Last night's argument with Cali kept replaying in my mind, a tape I couldn't shut off. Her words sliced deeper than any accusation a courtroom ever hurled at me.
You were accused of murdering our parents, Connor. How do you expect me to forget that?
I didn't give a shit what people thought. I'd stopped caring in high school. But something about the way she'd looked at me last night—anger tangled with something else, something I couldn’t place—had burrowed under my skin and stayed there. Maybe it was because I hadn’t seen her in years, and now here she was: older, stronger, standing tall in the ruins of the empire her father left behind.
My grip tightened around the trowel, knuckles white, as I stared at the neat rows of carefully labeled plants in front of me. The last thing I needed was to think about Cali Stavros right now, but my brain had other ideas. Her hair was longer, her features sharper, more confident. She wasn't the quiet, cautious girl I'd once known. Now she was something else entirely—something dangerous, something tempting.
Something I didn’t know how to handle.
The greenhouse door creaked open, breaking through my thoughts. I turned, a shadow falling across me, and there she was.
Cali.
She stood framed by the soft glow of dawn, her silhouette outlined by the muted light filtering through the glass. Jeans hugging her hips, a loose shirt, her hair piled messily into a bun, a few stray strands framing her face. Casual, yet somehow she still looked like she ownedthe whole damn world—or at least this piece of it. She held a book loosely at her side, its worn edges and dog-eared pages telling me she'd read it again and again. The book rested gently against her hip, the gesture casual yet strangely commanding, as if she belonged here without question—even now, even with me standing here.
“What are you doing here?” My voice came out sharper than I'd intended.
She raised an eyebrow, her tone laced with cool defiance. “Last I checked, this is still my house.”
