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The walls are ribbed with black stone and silver bone, enchanted symbols glowing faintly, like breathing ink. A wide, sunken pit lined with velvet cushions and broken relics—candleholders with melted eyes, blades dulled with old blood, books that whisper when the wind shifts.

And they’re here.

All of them.

The other Sins.

Dorian is the first to notice me. He’s sprawled on a low divan, long legs crossed, fingers tapping against a half-finished sketch in his lap. He looks like a ruin wearing charm like armor—smudged eyeliner, whiskey-colored eyes that say he’s already thought ten things about me, none of them polite.

Soren’s perched nearby, too still. His violet eyes fix on me like I’m a meal he’s not hungry enough to chase—yet. He licks his lips once, slow, and doesn’t smile.

Vaelrik lounges against a support beam, shirt half-buttoned, knuckles bruised like he got into a fight and won out of spite. His gaze flicks over me without interest at first—then sharpens, lingers. The way wolves look at rabbits when they think no one’s watching.

Theron’s upside down in a chair that shouldn’t hold his weight. He grins when I enter, teeth too white, eyes too black. His fingers twitch like he’s already imagining what I’d look like naked.

Malachi stands near the edge of the room, arms crossed, unreadable. He watches the others before he watches me. When our eyes meet, it’s like hitting a wall made of knives.

Alistair is already watching me. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Just nods once in acknowledgment. It should be nothing. Somehow it feels like more.

I step down into the pit, slow and steady, and every eye follows.

“What’s she doing here?” Vaelrik asks, voice sharp.

“She agreed,” Severin replies.

Dorian raises a brow. “Just like that?”

“I’ve spent two weeks in a Void-bound cell made of perfume and paranoia,” I say, tone dry. “Forgive me if I want a change of scenery.”

Soren chuckles. “You think this will be better?”

“No,” I say. “But I like knowing where the blades are.”

Theron claps, delighted. “Shedoeshave teeth.”

“And you’ll lose yours if you keep talking,” I murmur.

The way his smile widens is obscene.

Severin gestures toward me, voice smooth. “She’s coming with us. Play nice.”

No one says anything for a beat too long.

Then Malachi speaks.

“If she runs, I’m not chasing her.”

I don’t flinch. Because I won’t run here. But when we leave this place, when they let me into the world again— Iwill. And they won’t follow. At least, I don’t think they will.

I glance at Severin. He’s already looking at me like he knows exactly what I’m planning.

Shit.

“Where will we stay?”

The question leaves my mouth sharper than I intend, edged with too much urgency, but I don’t pull it back. I need the answer—not for them, not for whatever performance this is shaping into, but for me. For the piece of myself that hasn’t rotted in this mansion. The version that still remembers a life outside the Void, outside these walls stitched with magic and menace. If we’re returning to the mortal realm, I need to know how close I’ll be to the version of Layla thatleft.

His gaze is deliberate, lingering, not in the way men leer, but in the way spiders wait. Patient. Poised. Precise. There’s something too still in him, too contained, and it makes the moments between his movements feel choreographed. Calculated.