Page 59 of The Sin Binder’s Chains (The Seven Sins Academy #2)

Then she shifts her weight, cocks her head to the side, and says, flat as blade steel, “Are you seriously asking me that?”

Severin’s brows lift, expression all mock-politeness. “It’s a simple question. Do you come with us willingly?”

She stares at him, unimpressed. “I’m tired.”

That makes him blink.

“I’m hungry,” she continues, lifting a brow.

“I haven’t slept in thirty hours. My boots are ruined.

And I’ve had to listen to Riven’s temper tantrums the entire walk here, so, if you’re going to play the superior asshole card, do it fast, because I don’t have the patience to pretend this isn’t exactly what you wanted. ”

Dorian’s lip twitches.

Lucien chokes on a laugh he doesn’t bother to hide.

Severin’s smile tightens like it’s fighting for relevance.

Layla steps forward, not timid, not posturing.

Just… done. “Here’s what’s going to happen.

You’re going to feed me. You’re going to give me something stronger than that backwash excuse for wine you all drink.

You’re going to make sure no one in your precious rotten little court lays a finger on me. ”

Severin’s eyes darken.

“And you’re going to let them,” she gestures toward me, toward Lucien, “get out of the Hollow.”

There’s silence.

Real silence.

The kind that dares someone to blink first.

I stare at her. She’s shaking. I can see it now, barely, but it’s there. But gods, she holds it together like iron wrapped in silk. And it’s that softness, that impossible composure, that makes Severin hesitate.

He wants her.

But the pull?

That’s different.

That’s deeper.

And it’s already got him by the throat.

Lucien leans toward me, voice low. “She’s either going to reign or ruin.”

“She’ll do both,” I mutter back.

Finally, Severin smiles again. Slower this time. Less polished. Less sure.

“Very well,” he says. “You’ll be fed. You’ll be given a room. And your companions will leave unharmed.”

Layla exhales. Not relief. Just confirmation.

She steps forward, passing him without ceremony. “Good,” she says. “Because I don’t negotiate with things already half mine.”

And fuck me, he lets her pass.

She doesn’t look back. Not at Severin. Not at us. She just walks into the ruins like she owns them already.

And then, mid-step, she stops.

Turns.

Her gaze lands on Soren. And the silence that follows has teeth. Soren’s grin is already halfway there, cocked and ready like it always is, lazy, lethal, half-lidded smugness. The kind of look that says he knows exactly how sharp he is, and exactly how pretty that makes his cruelty.

But then Layla lifts her hand.

Points.

“You,” she says, voice flat. Commanding.

Soren’s grin falters. Only slightly, but it’s enough.

She doesn’t wait for him to respond. Doesn’t give him the space to hide behind that charming sociopathy he wears like armor.

“Stay the fuck away from me.”

The words hit like a slap. Not loud. Just true.

Soren’s brows twitch. Confusion flickers, fast, and for the first time, he looks, uncertain.

“I wasn’t even doing anything,” he mutters. Sulky. Defensive.

Dorian turns his head away, lips pressed tight like he’s trying not to laugh. Alistair exhales, slow and sharp, like he knew this was coming and still didn’t want to see it.

Severin watches with narrowed eyes. Not amused. Not indifferent. Something between possessive and intrigued.

But Layla doesn’t look at any of them. Just Soren.

“I see the way you look at me,” she says. Calm. Controlled. “Like you’re already undressing me with your eyes. Like you think you’ll get to touch.”

Soren shifts, jaw tight, mouth opening, but nothing comes out.

“And I’m telling you now,” she continues, stepping closer, “if you so much as breathe near me without permission, I will rip that pretty mouth off your face and wear it as a belt.”

Lucien whistles low under his breath.

Even I blink.

Soren lifts his hands in mock surrender, expression souring. “Alright, alright, fucking hell. Message received.”

Layla doesn’t nod. Doesn’t soften. She turns on her heel and keeps walking, vanishing into the shadows of the Temple like she’s the one we should all be afraid of.

Lucien mutters, “Well. That went better than expected.”

I shoot him a look. “You call that better?”

He shrugs. “She’s alive. And not broken yet. I’ll take it.”

And for a second, just a sliver, I feel it too.

Not hope. Not exactly.

But something like it.

The kind that doesn’t belong in men like me.

“Good luck with all that,” I mutter, nodding once toward Severin.

He doesn’t respond. Just stands there, carved in salt and spite, that golden mouth too still now, like maybe he’s finally wondering if this was a mistake.

It is.

But it’s already too late.

Layla disappears through the cracked stone archway without so much as a glance back. No hesitation. Not defiance. Just certainty. Like she’s already decided where all of this ends, and Severin’s the last to figure it out.

He should’ve walked away.

But the pull’s too strong.

He follows. Dorian’s next. Alistair. Even Soren, still muttering to himself like he doesn’t understand why she got under his skin when he didn’t even touch her.

They trail after her like men walking into the woods for a woman they swore they wouldn’t die for, and are about to anyway.

Lucien watches until they vanish, then turns and starts walking. No signal. No glance. Just trust that I’ll follow.

I do.

Neither of us speak until the Temple’s long behind us, and the ground stops humming with Severin’s shadow.

“Think she can do it?” I ask.

Lucien doesn’t stop walking. “Do what?”

“Survive it.”

He exhales through his nose, dark and thoughtful. “She already did.”

I frown. “You think this was survival?”

“I think,” he says, finally looking at me, “Severin thinks he can resist her. And he can’t. None of them can.”

“Even Dorian?”

“Especially Dorian,” Lucien says. “He’s already too close to the edge. She’ll pull him without trying.”

“And Soren?”

Lucien laughs, grim and low. “Soren’s already unraveling. You saw that. She called him out and he didn’t even blink. That’s not Soren. That’s influence. He’ll snap.”

“Then what?” I ask. “What happens when she has all of them? When she’s bound them, or whatever the hell comes before that?”

“She won’t bind them like Luna.”

“Yeah?” I snap. “And what the fuck does that mean?”

Lucien shrugs. “It means she’s not binding them for power. She’s not even binding them to balance. She’s binding them because it’s hers. That hunger. That quiet rage. It belongs to her. And they’ll follow it until it devours them.”

The Hollow comes into view just past the rise, spires of carved rock like skeletal hands reaching up from the earth. Orin’s still seated where we left him, eyes closed, like he’s listening to the world breathe.

Silas is pacing. Shirtless. Again.

Lucien groans under his breath. “Please tell me he’s not shirtless again.”

“Worse,” I say. “He’s pacing like he has something poetic to say.”

Lucien sighs. “Gods help us all.”

We find her where I knew she’d be. Not pacing. Not asking. Just waiting. Sitting near the black-rooted ash tree with her knees pulled up, hair knotted like she stopped caring what it looked like hours ago. Her hands are still. Too still. That’s how I know she hasn’t moved since we left.

Luna doesn’t look at us at first. Just lifts her head slightly like she’s listening to something none of us can hear. She probably is.

Lucien steps forward before I can. “She’ll be fine.”

Luna turns her head. Sharp. Not hopeful. Just ready to know.

“She stood her ground,” he adds. “Told Severin to feed her and get out of her way.”

Luna’s brows lift just enough to matter. “She said that?”

Lucien smirks. “Word for word.”

She exhales. It’s not relief. Not yet. Just the pause before her worry shifts into something sharper.

“She told Soren to stay the fuck away from her too,” I add, because I want her to know. Not everything. Just that her sister’s not folding. Not yet.

Luna blinks slowly. “And he listened?”

I shrug. “Didn’t have a choice. She dressed him down so hard, I think he’s still trying to figure out where his balls went.”

Lucien chokes on a laugh.

Luna doesn’t smile. But something eases around her shoulders.

Orin rises from his seated position, moving toward us like he already heard every word. Which he probably did. “She’s not Luna,” he says, soft and certain. “She won’t bind the same way.”

“I know,” Luna murmurs.

“Do you?” he asks.

She looks at him then, really looks, and I swear something passes between them that makes the bond in my chest ache.

I step closer. Not thinking. Just moving.

She glances at me. “You okay?”

It’s stupid. She’s the one who should be asking that of herself. But she always does this, pulls focus from her bleeding to check our pulse.

I scoff. “I’m not the one sending my sister off with a den of cursed bastards and a walking complex named Severin.”

Lucien mutters, “Says the man who used to have a Severin poster above his bed.”

“Fuck off,” I snarl, and Luna finally laughs.

Gods help me, I feel it everywhere. That sound. That fucking laugh. It curls under my ribs like fire and frost all at once. Too rare. Too much.

Slias crashes into the moment with perfect idiocy, bare-chested, grinning, and holding a half-melted bar of chocolate.

“Did I miss something important, or was this the group trauma debrief?”

Luna gives him a look. Dry. Slightly amused. Mostly exhausted.

Slias grins wider. “Because I can offer support in the form of terrible jokes, shoulder rubs, or wildly inappropriate compliments that will make you uncomfortable for at least forty-five minutes.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “You always make me uncomfortable.”

He presses a hand to his chest. “Then I’m doing my job.”

Orin sighs. “One day, your mouth will be your end.”

Silas shrugs. “One day, I’ll die doing what I love: flirting with dangerous women and pretending it’s a coping mechanism.”

Lucien mutters, “It’s not pretending.”

But Luna’s smiling now. It’s tired. It's cracked. But it’s real.

And I hate that I’m not the reason for it.