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The others are still scattered—most of them nursing hangovers in various states of pathetic disarray—but I’m here, awake, wired beneath the calm. My fingers tap a mindless rhythm against the scarred wood as the weight of last night curls like smoke in the back of my throat. I’m not thinking about the fight or the drink, not really.

I’m thinking about the prophecy—the one that spoke of Ambrose’s death and how none of them remembered until Caspian pieced it together.

I’m thinking about the pillar. About Branwen. About Lucien and Orin.

But mostly, I’m thinking about what my clone whispered to me in that binding chamber, in that cracked circle filled with bone-deep secrets.

That this place—the Hollow, Branwen’s realm—is where Sin Binders go when they die.

And if that’s true… if this is some graveyard for every Sin Binder who ever existed, for the ones who clawed and seducedand ruined the Sins before me—Then there’s a real chance that some oftheirold flames are still walking around here.

I can almostfeelthem, lurking just out of sight, ex-lovers like ghosts haunting the edges of this realm, waiting to sink their teeth back in. Not Branwen—not the villain we all know—but the others. The ones my boys never talk about. The ones they loved once, or lusted after. The ones who probably wore their teeth on smiles and bruised them in the places I’ve worked so hard to heal.

And the idea of it, the thought that one of them might stroll through that tavern door like she still has a claim on them, that she might smile at Elias, or Silas, or even Caspian the way I smile at them—

It makes something dark twist in me. Not jealousy. I know what I have with them. I know the bonds. The way they look at me like I could shatter them and they’d ask for more.

No, it’s not jealousy. It’s possession. It’s violence coiled in silk.

If one of those women walks through that door, I will gut this entire realm and salt the bones. I will burn the Hollow to the fucking ground and lock the door behind me so none of them—none of those shadows—ever find their way back here again.

A mug thuds onto the table beside me, sloshing dark ale across the scarred wood. I don’t have to look to know it’s Riven. His presence slides against my skin like the first drag of breath after surfacing from deep water, solid and sharp, but even he doesn’t speak. He just drops down beside me without ceremony, waiting like I’m the one who’s about to snap.

And maybe I am. Because I can’t shake this feeling—the one telling me that something is coming for us, and it’s not just Branwen this time.

I lean back in the chair, stretch my arms out over the back like a queen at court, my gaze still pinned to the door, daring it to open.

Because if one of them tries to take what’s mine… I willendthem.

The scrape of wood on stone grates against my skull as I drag my spoon through the half-eaten mess of whatever the tavern called breakfast. My plate’s cold. I don’t even taste it.

Riven it’s the impending storm, the march to the cathedral, the weight of everything that's happened since I bound them to me. He hasn’t said it outright—he knows me better than that—but I see it in the way his gaze lingers a beat too long, in the way he doesn't ask.

And I let him think it.

Because if I said the truth aloud—that I’m sitting here quietly homicidal over the idea of women who are already dead, over ghosts I haven’t even seen—I’d sound pathetic.

Possessive. Like the girl I swore I’d never be again.

So I let him think it’s Branwen, let him believe it’s the war brewing around us and not the war tearing me open from the inside. Because this mood—the sharp edge lodged beneath my ribs, the way every bite tastes like ash—isn’t about Branwen at all.

It’s about the ghosts I can't see. It’s about the ones I’m sure are watching.

The crack of a fist against wood upstairs has me glancing up, and then the unmistakable sound of bickering footfalls, heavy and graceless, stumbling down the staircase like they’re both too big for it.

Silas hits the bottom first, elbowing Elias so hard he nearly faceplants into the bannister. Elias retaliates with a shove that’s more petulant than violent, muttering something about how Silas slept with his knee in his back all night and how he’s going to shave Silas’s eyebrows off in his sleep.

They’re a mess.

Elias’s shirt is only half-buttoned, dark hair sticking up like he’s been electrocuted, eyes still sleep-heavy and sharp when they land on me. Silas isn’t even wearing shoes, one sock pulled halfway off, like he got distracted halfway through putting them on.

Usually, the sight of them—my boys, my bonded idiots—would pull a laugh out of me without effort.

Today, I don’t move. Don’t smile.

Silas ruffles Elias’s hair, which earns him a groan and a slap to the chest. They stumble over each other like puppies, fighting to get to the table first, until Elias drops gracelessly into the chair across from me and rests his chin on the table like he’s dying.

“This floor,” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep and last night’s ale, “is stickier than my soul.”