Page 55 of The Sin Binder’s Chains (The Seven Sins Academy #2)

She glances at me, and her expression slips for a fraction of a second. Just long enough to show me that this isn’t easy for her. That maybe, just maybe, she’s scared too. Not of me, not of us. But of losing something she’s never had before.

“I meant it,” I say, quieter this time. “About loving you. That wasn’t part of the pitch. That was real.”

Luna stops walking.

I nearly trip over my own boots trying to stop beside her. The Void groans somewhere in the distance, but she’s louder. Always louder.

She turns to face me. “You should hate me.”

“For what?” I ask. “Being right? Being stronger than the rest of us? For still believing you can save your sister, even when we’ve already started planning how to survive without her?”

She doesn’t answer. Her jaw tenses.

“I don’t hate you, Luna,” I say, “and I never could. But I’m fucking terrified of how far I’ll fall for you if you ever really let me in.”

Her eyes glint in the dark, and I swear the Void hushes for a breath, like it’s listening.

“I already did,” she says.

Then she yanks me toward her, and the kiss she gives me this time isn’t fury or forgiveness, it’s surrender.

It’s hers. It’s mine. I press her back against the gnarled black bark of a tree that wasn’t there yesterday, hands sliding under her coat, into her hair, against her skin like I can anchor myself here in the curve of her mouth and never move again. But she pulls back too fast, smirking.

“You’re not off the hook yet,” she whispers.

“Good,” I breathe. “I like it here.”

She quirks her eyelid at me, just one, just enough. And it’s unfair. It’s criminal. That tiny lift, that slow drag of lashes like she knows what she’s doing to me. Because she does.

Then, without ceremony, without permission, without a single fucking ounce of mercy, she pulls off her shirt.

Just peels it over her head, arms lifting, back arching, and I forget what language is. She’s not even looking at me when she does it. Just folds it and tosses it onto a boulder like her bra isn’t sculpted by warlocks with a vendetta against my sanity. Black lace. Barely-there straps. And her tits,

Gods.

I forgot what her tits looked like. I’ve seen them. Touched them. Kissed them. Worshipped them like they were carved by something divine and cruel. But somehow I forgot. Somehow, my brain wiped the memory to protect me, and now it’s flooding back in 4K detail and I am not okay.

I stare. And stare. And stare some more.

I don’t mean to. But she’s standing there like a vision conjured out of my most inappropriate dreams, skin flushed, eyes sharp, arms stretching up as she adjusts her hair, making her chest lift and,

I make a noise. It’s not human. Definitely not Sin-worthy. Possibly a whimper. My knees buckle. I drop to the ground like the unworthy worshipper I am.

“Okay,” I say aloud, voice cracking. “Okay. Alright. Yep. Good.”

“You alright, Silas?” she asks, voice all innocence and subtle ruin.

I try to answer. My mouth opens. Nothing happens.

She takes a step toward me.

Her boobs bounce.

My soul leaves my body.

“I’m fine,” I manage. “Just, uh. Forgot. About... physics. Gravity. And, your chestal area.”

She pauses, amused. “Chestal?”

“That’s a word,” I lie.

“Mhm.”

Another step closer. I start to sweat. She crouches in front of me, arms resting on her knees, which means she’s even closer. Her face inches from mine. Her tits right there. I could reach out and, I dig my fingers into the dirt instead.

“I’m gonna be cool,” I whisper. “I’m gonna be so cool.”

She leans forward just enough that I catch the edge of her breath on my cheek.

“You sure?” she murmurs. “Because you look like you’re malfunctioning.”

“I’m thriving,” I croak.

She reaches out, runs one finger down my jaw. I almost combust.

“You’re red,” she says. “Are you blushing?”

“No,” I say instantly. “Yes. Probably. My body’s betrayed me.”

She laughs. It’s soft. Real. Warm in a way that guts me.

“I should put the shirt back on,” she teases.

“Don’t,” I blurt. “Gods, don’t.”

Her brows rise.

I swallow. “I mean, you look, really good. And also, I love you. That’s unrelated. But still important.”

She blinks. “You just said that.”

I nod. “I’ll probably say it again.”

“While I’m half-naked?”

“I mean... preferably.”

Luna shakes her head, a smile twisting into something darker. “You’re hopeless.”

“I’m in love,” I whisper, dramatic as hell. “Let me suffer.”

She kneels there, half-dressed, smug and sin incarnate, watching me unravel with zero fucking remorse. Like the sight of her in nothing but that ridiculous scrap of lace and those low-slung pants isn’t currently short-circuiting the last few functional neurons in my brain.

She tilts her head, lips parted just enough to be lethal. “You gonna keep staring, or…?”

“Or what?” I manage. “You gonna weaponize the rest of your clothes against me?”

That earns a smirk. Slow. Filthy. Then she reaches for the button on her pants.

I make a sound I will never repeat, and immediately start yanking at my shirt like it’s trying to kill me. My arms get tangled. I spin around halfway. One foot catches on a loose rock, because of course it fucking does, and I go down in the most undignified sprawl in the history of lust.

Flat on my ass. Shirt halfway over my head. Pants halfway unbuttoned. Dignity? Gone.

I hear her laugh before I see it. Low. Rough. Hot enough to melt stone.

“You good down there, Veyd?”

“Define good,” I mutter, ripping the shirt the rest of the way off and flinging it like it insulted me personally. “I’m naked and humbled. Is that good?”

She walks toward me. Slow. Lethal. Each step is the sound of my last remaining brain cells screaming.

“You’re still wearing pants,” she points out, like she’s offended.

“Trying, actually.” I scramble to undo the rest, kicking them off like they’re cursed. “But someone decided to flash her tits and ruin my whole motor function.”

She doesn’t answer. She just kneels. Straddles me. Her thighs come down on either side of my hips, and the second I feel the heat of her pressed against me, I lose every single plan I might’ve had.

Her hands plant on my chest, pushing me back into the dirt, and she looks down at me like she already owns me. Because she fucking does.

“You’re hopeless,” she murmurs.

“And hard,” I add. “Don’t forget hard.”

She rolls her hips once, once, and I groan so loud it echoes.

Her smile turns razor sharp. “Poor baby.”

I reach up, dragging my hands up her thighs, over her hips, and finally to the edge of that lace.

“Not for long,” I growl.