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It was built for us. For the Sins. For what we represent.

And gold? Gold is mine.

My gaze sweeps the room again, but slower now. I see the patterns. The way the coins form spirals around the pedestal. The way the jewels lie in mirrored alignment, geometric and intentional. This room isn’t chaos. It’s code.

And Luna’s standing in the center of it.

“Don’t move,” I say.

She freezes.

The pedestal pulses again.

And then the gold moves. Just a little.

Elias

There are moments in your life when you know—you just know—you should turn around and pretend you never saw what’s in front of you.

This is one of them.

The vault is massive, stupidly vast, and glittering in a way that’s not even seductive anymore. It’s aggressive. Gold coins slither underfoot with every step. Jewels reflect the low, sourceless light in fractured rainbows. The whole place feels like a trap disguised as an orgasm. A monument to obsession and rot. Branwen didn’t just hoard this. Shefedit. And now it’s looking back at us, teeth bared beneath all the gilded smiles.

Silas is already spiraling.

The man’s hands are visibly shaking, and not in the “I’m-about-to-cry” way, but the “I might hump the floor” kind of tremor that means we’ve officially reached Code Gold. His pupils are blown. His mouth parted like he’s catching scent more than sight. And then I see it—his fingers twitching at his side like they’re physically aching to grab something shiny and unforgivable.

I knew it. I fuckingknewit.

Silas Veyd—the chaos connoisseur, the walking scandal, the man who once bit a royal guard for denying him a cursed dagger—is about to ruin everything for thefifth time this week, and I’m just happy to be here for it.

I don’t stop him.

I wouldn’t dare.

He bends down in front of the nearest gold mound like he’s at the altar of a very specific, very glittery god. His fingers hover above the coins—trembling, reverent. The man's practically vibrating.

And then Luna moves.

She’s across the room in seconds, quicker than any of us expected her to be in boots made for warfare and vengeance. Her hand grabs the back of Silas’s head like she’s done it before—and she probably has. Gods know they’ve got that cursed bond that practically hums when they look at each other.

Silas freezes.

His spine locks up. His breath hitches. But his eyes stay fixed on the pile like the coins are whispering dirty secrets only he understands.

“I saiddon’t touch anything,” Luna growls low in his ear, her fingers curled in his hair, firm, unrelenting.

Silas doesn’t argue—not exactly.

But he does let out a strangled noise, somewhere between a protest and a whimper. “But babe,” he breathes, “look at her. She’ssoshiny. It’d berudenot to—”

“Up,” she says.

Silas doesn’t move. She tightens her grip and yanks. And that’s when it happens.

Silas fuckingmoans.

Loud.