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But I’m not normal. And I’m not rational. Not anymore.

I know exactly what I am to them—for now, for however long the Hollow lets me keep breathing. I know that no matter how sharp the edges between us, how twisted the threads that bind us, they’re mine. And I’m theirs. I can feel it in every stare, every touch, every breath.

Which is how I find myself sitting in a half-built treehouse with three of the deadliest creatures I’ve ever known, listening to them rank the women they’ve screwed and abandoned.

Silas is stretched out like a cat who’s eaten something wicked, legs swinging over the edge of the rickety platform, one boot tapping against the beam with a rhythm that matches his chaos. Elias lies flat on his back beside me, arms folded behind his head, grinning at the sky like it’s all some cosmic joke. And Ambrose—Ambrose of all people—is perched stiffly across from us, as if the treehouse itself is beneath him, but he hasn’t left yet.

That’s something.

"Alright," Silas says, voice too damn pleased with himself, "but no one was worse than Katriel."

Elias groans immediately. "No. Absolutely not. Do not invoke her name."

Ambrose lifts a brow, sharp as a knife. "Katriel is the one who carved our initials into her arms, isn’t she?"

Silas beams. "She added hearts."

I blink. "You’re joking."

Elias sighs, throwing an arm over his eyes. "She used to sneak into our rooms and steal our clothes. I swear I saw her wearing my cloak once, naked underneath, pretending to talk to herself like I was there."

"She also set a field on fire when Ambrose didn’t say goodnight to her," Silas adds helpfully, rocking back on his elbows.

Ambrose snorts. "She set the field on fire because you slept with her and forgot her name the next day."

"Semantics."

I shake my head, the absurdity of it all settling into my bones like smoke. "You realize you’re all insane, right?"

Elias peeks at me from under his arm. "Takes one to bind one, darling."

I glance at Ambrose. He hasn’t smiled—but his mouth quirks now, subtle, like he’s amused in spite of himself.

Silas nudges me with his knee. "Oh, wait. What about Leona?"

Elias groans louder this time, like it’s physically painful. "The one who painted portraits of us and then set them on fire?"

"While singing lullabies," Silas confirms, eyes sparkling.

"She also poisoned Ambrose once," Elias adds lazily.

"It wasn’t lethal," Ambrose mutters.

"Still poison," Elias points out, deadpan.

They keep going, tossing names back and forth like they’re playing cards, like they’re not recounting literal centuries of lovers who’ve gone insane for them, bled for them, burned for them. There’s something almost human about it, something ridiculous and grim and entirely them.

And somehow, impossibly, I laugh. Because this is my life now—sitting in a crooked treehouse built by gods and monsters, listing all the women who tried to ruin them, and knowing they’ll never ruin me.

It hits me when Silas starts in on a girl who tried to hex them all into marrying her.

The stories tumble out of their mouths so easily—like it’s all a joke, a long, bloody history of wreckage and women and wild obsession. But there’s a weight behind it, whether they mean it or not. Because every name they’ve thrown like a dagger was someone who wanted them enough to burn everything down.

So what does that make me?

And before I can stop myself, I ask, voice far too light, far too casual, "So… if all your old Sin Binders were insane… what does that make me?"

Silas stops mid-sentence, his grin freezing.