Page 119

“Holy shit,” he breathes, voice too loud, too wrecked, too reverent. His eyes are wide, grin stretched stupid and sweet across his face.

He stops in front of her, gaze glued to the ink curling beneath her breast—the chaotic, swirling glyphs marked in my own handwriting, tangled recklessly alongside his.

“That one’s mine,” he says, voice dipping lower, softer, like it’s the only thing in the world that matters.

His fingers lift, almost hesitant, then trace the curve of his crest on her skin.

The contact makes her shiver.

And me?

It’s stupid how badly I want to touch her too. How badly I want her looking at me the way she looks at him—like she could drag me to hell and I’d fucking thank her for it.

Elias whistles low from behind me. “Well, this just got interesting.”

Luna’s glare could melt the bones out of our bodies.

And still—still—Silas stands there with his fingers hovering over the ink curling under her ribs like he’s touching scripture, reverent and reckless all at once.

Until she slaps his hand away.

Hard.

The crack of skin on skin echoes in the garage, and Silas stumbles back, blinking at her like she’s just murdered his puppy.

Elias, because he’s the worst kind of idiot, doesn’t even react to the slap—his phone’s out at his hip, tilted subtly like he’s trying to pretend he’s not taking photos of her inked-up stomach while also very clearly taking photos.

“Elias,” I drawl, voice rough from smoke and too much beer, “are you serious right now?”

He doesn’t even look up. “For posterity.”

“Put your shirt down, sweetheart,” Silas mutters, voice slurring around the edges now, still not moving. “I can’t think when your tits are out.”

It’s fair.

None of us can.

Riven’s got his arms crossed, but I don’t miss the way his eyes flicked down too, once, fast, like he was memorizing every inch of her skin.

Ambrose hasn’t looked away once.

Luna makes a low, murderous sound in her throat and tugs the fabric back into place, arms folded tight across her chest like she’s debating who to set on fire first.

That’s when Silas claps his hands together, sways on his feet like he’s about to fall over, and then does the most Silas thing possible.

“I think,” he announces, voice way too loud, “we need a history lesson.”

Before anyone can stop him, he snaps his fingers.

Three clones of himself ripple into existence around him—identical smirking disasters, all wobbling slightly like the spell’s drunk too. One leans against the wall dramatically, one drops onto the workbench, the last one flourishes a nonexistent cape and gives Luna an extravagant bow.

“Behold,” the clone says, voice dripping with theatrical flair. “The Crests of the Sins.”

“Oh fuck me,” Elias mutters, dragging a hand down his face but not stopping his phone from recording now.

Silas stumbles forward, grinning so wide it looks like it hurts. “See, darling,” he slurs, gesturing wildly between himself and the others, “a Sin’s crest isn’t just a symbol. It’s a spell. It’s a binding. It’s history burned into flesh.”

The clone perched on the workbench holds up an imaginary scroll. “Only a handful of Sin Binders in recorded history ever got to five marks.”