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Luna snorts. “Uh huh. And the sunglasses? Super subtle.”
I ignore that. Mostly because she’s right and partially because I’m not about to explain that seeing her—reallyseeing her—makes something in me want to self-destruct.
“You’re still dropping your elbow on the spin,” I mutter instead, stepping closer. “You’re overcompensating with your off-hand. Stop gripping the hilt like it’s going to fly away.”
She stops mid-form and turns toward me. Sweat clings to the hollow of her throat. Her braid’s unraveling, strands sticking to her cheek, and she looksfucking devastating. And focused.Dangerous.
“You going to keep standing there with your arms crossed, or are you actually going to show me?”
Gods. She doesn’t evenknowwhat she’s asking. Or maybe she does. Maybe she’s doing it on purpose—baiting me. Digging under my skin the way she always does.
I step into her space before I can stop myself, reach for her hands, adjust her grip without looking directly at her. My fingers brush against her palm. She’s warm. Steady. The bond pulses between us, low and violent andalive.
“This blade,” I say roughly, “isn’t just Wrath anymore. You soaked it in Sloth, Envy. It’s heavy with too much of us. You can’t swing it like it’s one thing—itisn’t. It’s chaos.”
“Like you?”
I look up. She’s watching me, too close, too knowing. Her voice is soft, but not sweet. Like a dare. I step behind her. Wrap my hand around hers from behind and guide the blade through the arc. One, two, three—then I press my palm to her abdomen, just above her navel.
“Anchor here,” I say, voice low. “This is your center. You don’t move from here. Everything else follows.”
She shudders beneath my touch. Just barely. But I feel it.Fuck,I feel it.
I pull away before I do something stupid. Like bury my face in the crook of her neck. Like drag her back into the house and show her whatrealtraining looks like.
“I’m not your fucking teacher,” I mutter, stepping back.
“No,” she says, spinning the blade once, cleaner now, smoother. “But you’re better than the creeper in the shadows.”
I give her the finger. She grins.
And I pretend like that doesn’t feel like victory.
She shifts her footing again, slow, deliberate. The blade sweeps outward—flawed, yes, but better. Stronger. Her core holds. Her breath evens. Sweat glistens against her collarbone, catching the fractured sunlight slicing through the trees like it wants to bless her.
And I hate this feeling in my chest. Hate how fucking soft it is.
Because it isn’t her beauty that kills me.
It’s thewayshe moves. Like something unchained. Like someone who’s never learned to stay caged and doesn’t intend to start now. She’s not a container. She’s acurrent. She doesn't hold you in—she shows you how to open.
And me?
I’m a monster forged in chains. In fury. In centuries of being used, bound, bled dry for what I am. And every part of me expected her to try. To do what all the others did. Take. Trap.Command.
But she didn’t.
She never has.
She’s chaos, yes—but not like me. Not like the rest of us. We destroy because that’s what we were made for. Shecreatesthrough it. Remakes the world every time she steps into a space and dares it to defy her softness.
She should've collapsed under the weight of what we are. And instead she’s standing barefoot on this cursed earth, blade in hand, wrapped in wrath and envy and sloth—and stillkind.
Still open.
Stillherself.
And she never once tried to bind me. Never used the bond toforceanything. No manipulation. No demand. No chains, no orders, no fucking magic words whispered into my skull to make me kneel.