Page 115

“The intent matters,” I say, voice low, deliberate. “The will of the Sin matters. You had to want it.”

I wait.

He doesn’t argue, doesn’t snap back with one of those cold little quips he throws out when he wants everyone to think he’s unaffected. He just breathes, slow and shallow, like the words are a blade pressed under his ribs.

I lean my hip against the workbench beside him, holding out the joint between two fingers, casual as hell. “So tell me, Ambrose. When exactly did you decide to stop lying to yourself?”

He finally looks at me then—sharp, cutting, like he wants to take my head off for saying it out loud.

I raise a brow, holding his gaze. “You had to want her. For this to happen.”

He doesn’t move. I press the joint into his palm anyway, my fingers brushing his just long enough to make sure he knows I’m not letting him off the hook.

“You wanted her,” I murmur, voice quieter now, dark and vicious like a dare. “You wanted her enough to bind.”

Ambrose stares at me like I’ve said something obscene, like I’ve gutted him in the middle of the fucking garage.

I lean back, folding my arms. “You’re not the one above this, Ambrose. You never were. You just wanted to be.”

His fingers curl around the joint, slow and deliberate.

And when he finally speaks, his voice is low and quiet, but sharp enough to bleed. “Doesn’t mean I’ll survive it.”

I grin, wicked and cruel. “None of us are surviving her.”

A sound behind us—footsteps, too heavy to be anyone but Elias stomping his way down here like he owns the damn place. Probably heard the crash, probably heard everything.

And the fallout’s about to get a hell of a lot messier.

Elias might as well be a fucking joint himself—the way he slinks into the garage, all lazy limbs and cocky grin, like he wandered in here by accident and not because he’s been eavesdropping outside the entire time.

His hands are shoved in his pockets, shoulders slouched like he’s never had a serious thought in his life. But his eyes—the sharp, dark ones he pretends aren’t always watching—flick to the joint still burning faintly between Ambrose’s fingers.

They widen, comically. Like we’re committing a crime and he’s stumbled into the middle of it.

“Is that—” Elias glances around the garage like we’re about to get raided, voice dropping conspiratorial and ridiculous. “You’re smoking without me? Rude.”

I groan, dragging a hand over my face because, of course, this is how he enters the scene. “You gonna stand there like a narc or sit down and be cool?”

Ambrose doesn’t even look at him, still pinned taut as a blade beside the bench, like he’s one wrong breath away from imploding.

Elias ignores him entirely, eyes still locked on me, grinning like an idiot. “You know I don’t do peer pressure, but also… I’m very susceptible to it.”

He’s already moving before I can answer, flopping down onto one of the cracked leather chairs near the wall, legs spread too wide, shoulders loose like he doesn’t care about a damn thing in this world.

I toss him the joint, and he catches it easily, brings it to his lips like we didn’t almost burn the world down tonight. He takes one long, slow drag, holds it, then exhales like he’s solving a math problem.

“Okay,” he says, voice light but twitching around the edges. “So we’re all just pretending Luna’s covered in our tattoos now, and that’s normal? That’s what we’re doing?”

Ambrose’s jaw locks so hard I hear the crack.

I lean back against the bench, grinning despite myself. “No one’s pretending, Eli. It’s real.”

Elias’ mouth twists around another inhale. “Well, fuck me.”

He blows out the smoke, letting it curl lazily toward the ceiling, then flicks his gaze to Ambrose. “You really did it, huh?” His voice is quieter now, teasing but soft underneath. “The fifth Sin. Bound to the girl who was never supposed to exist.”

Ambrose doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even blink. He just stands there, every inch of him wound tight, like if he acknowledges it, it’ll become something more than the ink on her skin.