Page 44 of The Sin Binder’s Chains (The Seven Sins Academy #2)

Severin’s not stupid. That’s what’s pissing me off the most. This endless loop of blood and bone and things that shouldn’t crawl, isn’t desperation. It’s a strategy. And it’s working.

It’s been nearly two weeks since we crossed into this twisted stretch of nightmare, and what should’ve been a three-day passage has turned into a slow bleed.

He’s drawing it out. Keeping us locked in this godless labyrinth while he chips away at our strength, our patience.

Our unity. He doesn’t need to win in one blow.

He just has to keep us moving slow enough to fall apart.

And maybe we are.

The fire’s low, more ember than flame, and none of us has the energy to feed it.

Layla's curled into herself near the edge of camp, her eyes shadowed and body curled like she’s trying to disappear.

She hasn’t said a word in hours, and it’s not the silent strength she normally wears.

It’s… empty. Starved. Her energy is thinning, and even with Orin feeding her life through his own body, through that strange, grotesque communion he’s perfected, it isn’t enough. Not anymore.

I glance across the camp. He’s sitting beside her now, quiet, fingers pressed lightly to her wrist. His skin has paled, death-white where it normally glows with slow-burning gold.

Even the trees around him are wilting, like the land knows it’s been harvested too many times.

He can’t keep doing this. None of us can.

And yet, here we are. Waiting. Again.

My grip tightens around the blade resting across my knees.

Wrath hums beneath my skin, restless, aching for something to sink into.

I haven’t had a real night’s rest since the last time I touched her, and even that was a blur of bruised kisses and biting silence.

The bond between us is a goddamn curse, pulling tight every time she sighs, every time she flinches, every time her power calls to mine like it wants to bury itself in my ribs.

She’s not looking at me now. Good. Because if she did, I’d see the worry on her face, see her watching Layla like she wants to take the pain for herself. I’d see her guilt. Her need. And that would be it. That would be the thing that tips me over, that makes me say something I can’t take back.

Like how I’m ready to burn this entire fucking realm down just to get her out of it. Like how I dream about her, every goddamn night. Even when I don’t want to.

A twig snaps in the woods. My head jerks toward the sound, body already shifting into attack even before I’ve registered what it is. A deer. Or maybe just the shadow of one. It vanishes before I can tell. My muscles scream in protest, but I don’t relax. Not yet.

Because this is the part of the night where it always starts.

The quiet before the next scream.

The pause before the next nightmare.

And I know, I know, Severin is watching. Somewhere out there, behind whatever glamour or abyss he’s hiding in, he’s grinning like the smug bastard he is, knowing full well that he doesn’t need to face us to destroy us.

Not when he can make us tear each other apart first.

And not when he's already found our weakness.

Her name is Layla.

Lucien lowers himself beside me with that tired elegance only he can pull off, like even exhaustion respects him enough not to muss his clothes.

His knees crack, sharp and human, and I snort without meaning to.

Not because it’s funny. Because hearing someone like him make a noise so…

mundane, so normal, feels like catching a god mid-stumble.

"You're not immortal, old man," I mutter, tossing another twig into the fire. The flames hiss, swallowing it like they’ve been waiting.

Lucien doesn’t glance at me. Doesn’t need to. His gaze is fixed on the woods, on the shadows that shift just a little too wrong, a little too slow. "No. But I’m something worse," he says, voice dry, cracked at the edges. “I remember everything.”

I don’t answer. Because I know what he means. We all do. This realm, whatever Severin has turned it into, feeds on more than strength. It feeds on memory, on exhaustion that seeps past the muscle and into the marrow. You can’t sleep it off. You can’t bleed it out. It just stays.

He exhales, and it’s not quite a sigh. More like a surrender. "He’s not trying to kill us, Riven."

"I know," I growl, jaw clenching. My fingers tighten around the blade resting across my lap, the one humming with my wrath. It’s warm from my grip, hot like it knows I’m one heartbeat from snapping.

Lucien shifts just enough to look at me then, and I hate the way his gaze slices through me. Always has. He sees too much. Not in the way Orin understands. No, Lucien calculates. Dissects.

"It’s Layla," he says finally, voice low. “He’s bleeding her slowly. Using us to wear her down. You feel it too, don’t you?”

I look toward her. She’s curled on her side near Orin, wrapped in one of Elias’s coats, dwarfed by it. Her hair’s matted. Her lips are pale. And still, she hasn't asked for anything. Not even water. Just lies there, shrinking.

“I feel it,” I admit. Quiet. Brutal.

Lucien nods once. “He wants her exhausted. Starved. Willing.”

Willing. That word echoes in the hollow space between my ribs. I grit my teeth. “She won’t be.”

“She might be,” he counters. “If she thinks it’ll save the rest of us.”

That’s the difference between them. Between Luna and Layla. Luna would burn the world down for us. Layla would throw herself into the fire without hesitation if it meant we’d walk free. That’s why Severin wants her.

That’s why I hate this plan.

“She’s not ready,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “She’s not like Luna.”

“No,” Lucien murmurs. “But she doesn’t have to be.”

The fire crackles. Somewhere in the woods, something howls, low and broken, like it’s being torn apart mid-breath. Neither of us flinches.

“I’m going to kill him,” I say. Not a threat. A promise.

Lucien’s lips curve, not a smile, not exactly. More like the ghost of satisfaction. “Get in line.”

None of us can die. That’s the fucking rub.

Not Lucien with his dominion, not Orin with his ancient hunger, not Elias with his smartass smirks and impossible manipulation of time.

And me? I’ve tried. Trust me. My wrath only feeds me.

Makes me harder to kill me. And Silas? The idiot would probably flirt with death and come out grinning, covered in glitter and blood.

But Luna and Layla?

They’re still breakable. Mortal. The glue holding this frayed, cursed tapestry together. Severin knew what he was doing. He always does. He couldn’t kill us, so he found leverage. Flesh-and-bone leverage with bright eyes and too much damn heart.

I don’t like what I’m thinking. I hate that I’m thinking it.

That maybe we could use Layla. Not to hurt her. Never that. But… Severin wants her. And we need to get the fuck out of this endless loop. Need to find Ambrose. Caspian. Need to stop running in circles through Severin’s nightmare maze, getting clawed apart by monsters made from our regrets.

I glance across the camp. Layla is asleep, finally. Luna’s curled near her like a shield, her eyes half-lidded but alert, fingers twitching like she’s already preparing for another fight. She’s exhausted. We all are. But those two? They’re fragile in a way we aren’t allowed to be.

And Lucien sees it too. I feel his gaze on me before I even turn. His jaw’s set, his mouth a razor line. The firelight glints off the sharp edge of his cheekbone, and for a split second, we both know.

We’re not heroes. Never were. We’ll do what it takes to survive.

Even if that means using the girl who hasn’t asked us for a damn thing but keeps standing beside us anyway.

Lucien finally speaks, voice low and hard. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

I look back at the flames. “Unfortunately.”

Because the truth is, we’re out of time.

And Severin? He’s just getting started.

“Luna won’t agree to it,” I say, my voice low, gritty with the truth I already know she’ll shove down my throat the moment she hears this plan. Because she’s Luna, reckless, bright, infuriating Luna. The girl who still believes there’s another way, even when everything around us says otherwise.

Lucien doesn’t argue. Just nods once, slow and tired, like he’s been holding that truth in his mouth too long and it’s finally started to rot.

He exhales through his nose, rubs the back of his neck, and stares into the dark beyond the firelight like he’s waiting for Severin to step out of it. “It might be a necessary loss.”

The words hit me like gravel to the ribs, and I flinch before I can stop myself. He doesn’t mean it cruelly, Lucien never does. That’s what makes him worse than me. I burn because it’s the only way I know how to survive. He cuts clean because he thinks it’s mercy.

“You think Severin would hurt her?” I mutter. The idea of it makes something inside me pull tight and savage. I know Severin. We all do. He doesn’t kill his pawns. He turns them into weapons.

“No,” Lucien says. His voice is too calm. “He’ll be just like we are with Luna.”

And that’s the part that makes my skin crawl.

Because I know exactly what he means. Severin won’t maim Layla. He’ll revere her. Worship her. Twist his obsession into something sanctified. She’ll be his, in the same way we are Luna’s, bound not just by power, but by the goddamn marrow of who we are.

And Layla? She won’t survive that kind of attention.

Not because she’s weak. No. That girl’s stronger than most of us give her credit for. But because she hasn’t had to want the monsters staring at her across a fire pit she hasn’t had to choose between love and war. And Severin won’t ask. He’ll take.

Lucien shifts beside me, elbows on his knees. “You’d kill him before he laid a hand on her.”