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Caspian

We’re all a little drunk. Okay, maybe more than a little. Maybe the kind of drunk where everything feels sharp and loose at the same time, and the world has that soft edge like you’re falling sideways but it’s funny instead of terrifying.

The garage reeks of smoke and sweat and magic—the kind that coils under your skin like a promise you can’t unmake.

Silas is in the middle of the room, performing.

That’s the only word for it.

One hand pressed dramatically to his chest, the other raised like he’s reciting poetry, except it’s the worst fucking poetry anyone’s ever heard. Some bastardized mess of Old Tongue and modern slang, weaving in nonsense about Luna’s “heavenly hips” and how “the Sins fell, but Silas Veyd fell hardest.”

Elias is doubled over, wheezing laughter so loud it’s almost painful. Riven’s leaning back against the workbench, beer bottle dangling from his fingers, a rare smirk pulling at his mouth.

Even Ambrose isn’t immune—his mouth twitching at the corners like he wants to be above this but can’t quite manage it.

And me?

I’m sprawled in the chair, one boot kicked up on the crate in front of me, head tipped back, throat rough with laughter and smoke and something heavier simmering underneath.

It’s good.

For a moment, it’s easy.

Then the tornado hits.

The garage door slams open hard enough to rattle the hinges, and she’s there—our Sin Binder. Our girl.

Luna. Furious and fucking breathtaking.

Her eyes cut through the room like a blade, sharp enough to gut. She’s barefoot, tattoos still fresh and raw on her skin, and she looks like she could end worlds with nothing but a glance.

Every single one of us freezes like she’s a goddamn predator who just caught us mid-heist.

Silas’ hand drops mid-performance. Elias straightens, wide-eyed. Riven tucks his smirk away like it never existed.

Even I blink, forcing my brain to catch up to my body because the room tilts dangerously when I try to stand.

She marches in, all lethal grace and pissed-off energy, and before any of us can scramble for words—

She flashes us.

Lifts the hem of her shirt, casual and deadly, showing off the black ink sprawled across her stomach, up her ribs, crawling toward her sternum like vines and claws and ruin.

Our marks.

Our names written into her skin.

My breath catches sharp in my throat.

Her gaze sweeps across us, cutting, furious. “Which one of you brilliant assholes is going to explain this to me?”

Before any of us can stammer a word, there’s a faint click.

I glance over and—fucking—Riven’s holding up his phone, camera raised, thumb tapping the screen like he’s cataloging an execution.

Luna’s eyes narrow to slits, but she doesn’t move.

Silas, predictably, stumbles forward like he’s been yanked by an invisible chain.