Page 62 of The Sin Binder’s Chains (The Seven Sins Academy #2)

Now is not the time. I know this. Gods, everyone knows this. We’ve got two men missing, a resurrected Binder who should’ve rotted in the bones of history, and Luna is spiraling into something that looks less and less like humanity every time she breathes.

So yeah.

Now is not the time.

But the pull? It’s gnawing through my ribcage like it’s trying to dig its way out.

And if I don’t do this, if I don’t say something, I won’t be able to think straight. I’ll be too full of want, of heat, of her, and it’ll twist me into something worse than useless.

I stop in front of her door.

My hand lifts. Pauses.

I’m Elias fucking Dain. I’ve made gods cry and demons blush and once told a high priestess to kiss my ass mid-exorcism.

But now?

Now I can’t move because I’m afraid the woman who already lets me into her bed won’t let me past her walls.

Still, I knock. It’s soft. Pathetic. A sound that says, I’ll take no for an answer, just say something before I combust.

The door creaks open.

She’s there. Barefoot. Wrapped in nothing but a thin black robe that clings to her like it was made of ink and hunger. Her hair is down. Wild. She looks like she hasn’t slept.

Like maybe she couldn’t.

And then she says it. My name.

“Elias.”

Just that. And the way she says it, Like it hurts her. Like I’m a problem she hasn’t decided whether to solve or savor.

It takes me too long to respond. Because I’m standing there, staring, trying to force my brain to reboot, to rewrite, to give me anything other than what’s clawing at my throat.

And what comes out?

What escapes me?

“So I think we should bond now.”

Silence.

I want to die. If Silas were here, he’d be on the floor, wheezing, probably clutching a chair for support and shrieking something like “Finally!” while Lucien debates whether to hex me mute for eternity.

Luna doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t even blink. She just stares at me. Not angry. Not amused.

Just watching.

I shift my weight, palms suddenly too warm, chest too tight.

“Right,” I mutter. “I realize that sounds a little like a marriage proposal from someone who forgot the flowers and brought emotional baggage instead.”

Still no reaction.

I clear my throat. “What I meant was... I don’t want to be this close to you and still outside of whatever it is you are. I already want to tear people apart for looking at you too long. I dream about you, awake. And if I don’t bond now, I’ll keep pretending I’m okay with just... this.”

Her eyes narrow. That little tilt of her head. Like she’s dissecting me in real time.

“Elias,” she says again. And fuck, that name shouldn’t feel like a command. But it does.

I meet her gaze, and I see it, The flicker of something darker than desire. Need. And maybe even... yes.

I should shut up.

I should.

But I don’t.

“I get that this isn’t the time,” I say, fast, a little breathless, like maybe if I get the words out quickly enough they won’t sound as fucking tragic as they feel.

“Honestly, it’s the worst time. Apocalypse-adjacent.

Vibes are grim. Caspian and Ambrose are missing.

Severin’s throwing curses like party favors.

And I’m out here giving confessions like it’s prom night. ”

Still no reaction.

So, naturally, I keep going.

“But my brain is mush, Luna. Just... completely gone. I can’t think about anything else until this is done. Until we’re done, this, and it’s not about being dramatic, okay? I’m not Silas, I’m not trying to perform an emotional striptease and then cry on your floor.”

Her mouth twitches. Just barely.

“I want to bind with you,” I say. The words fall sharp, finally clean. “Not because I feel like I have to. Not because I’m afraid. But because I love you.”

And fuck, there it is.

I blink. My stomach turns inside out.

“I love you,” I repeat, quieter this time, like maybe softening it will make it sound less like I’m handing her a knife and saying please, cut me open.

“I’m sorry this is coming out weird,” I mutter. “I’m not good at... this. Feelings. Intentional vulnerability. Sincere declarations of emotional depth. You know. Talking.”

She hasn’t looked away. Not once.

“If you say no, that’s fine,” I add quickly. “Fine. I’ll just crawl away in shame. Possibly relocate to the Shadow Realm. Change my name. Start a new life as a morally ambiguous flower vendor. You won’t hear from me again.”

Her expression shifts.

Not laughter.

Something worse.

Something better.

She steps back. Just a little. Just enough. And opens the door wider.

“Come in, Elias,” she says, voice low, lethal, Luna.

And gods help me, I go. Because if this is the start of my undoing? I want her to be the one to end me.

She doesn’t speak when I step inside. Just closes the door behind me, quiet, slow, and the sound clicks like a lock sliding into place beneath my skin.

It’s not the room that makes my heart race.

It’s her.

She stands there in the low glow of candlelight like she was carved from every wicked dream I’ve never admitted aloud. The robe clings to her, black silk barely hanging on her frame, and her eyes…

Gods. Her eyes.

They strip me faster than her hands ever could.

I shove my fingers through my hair, trying to buy myself a second of control. “So… good start. Solid entrance. Only slightly humiliating. No one has died. Yet.”

She doesn’t smile. Not really. Just tilts her head and watches me like I’m some volatile mix of magic and stupidity, which, yeah. Accurate.

“This is serious to you?” she asks softly.

I nod. Then I ruin it.

“With the unfortunate side effect of me sounding like a virginal cultist proposing with a chicken bone and a magic circle, yeah.”

She walks past me, slow and deliberate, fingers brushing my arm just enough to ignite my nerves.

“You want to bond,” she says, like she’s testing the weight of it in her mouth.

I turn to face her. “I do.”

My voice is quieter now. Because the air feels charged. Different.

Her gaze flicks down to my hands, and for a moment, I swear she’s imagining it, what it would take.

We both know what the ritual looks like.

The cut across the palm. The blood mingling.

The words that would shift everything in my chest. And then, the final seal.

Skin on skin. Breath tangled between moans and power.

It’s not romance. It’s claiming. And it’s permanent.

Her fingers graze mine. Not enough to bind. Just enough to hint.

“You understand what it means?” she asks.

I nod, but my throat is tight. “Yeah. That you’ll be in my head, my bones. That you’ll feel me, even when you don’t want to. That I’ll feel you. And that if I’m not careful, I’ll start begging without knowing it.”

“Do you want that?”

“I want you.” My voice drops. “I want to stop pretending like this thing between us is some casual mistake.”

There’s a flicker in her eyes. Something dangerous. Something soft.

“You’re not ready,” she says, not cruel, just honest.

“Probably not.”

“And still, you asked.”

“Because,” I breathe, “you’re worth the risk.”

The words sit between us, raw and heavy.

And then, she steps closer. Her hand slides up my chest. Her mouth brushes my ear.

“When I take you, Elias,” she whispers, “there won’t be anything left to hide behind.”

I swallow hard. “Promise?”

She turns away with a smirk, walks toward the bed like she didn’t just detonate something inside me.

And gods help me, I follow.

She stops at the desk. Not the bed. Not the mirror. Not the perfect, chaotic spiral of where this should be headed. She reaches into the drawer like she’s done this before, too smooth, too practiced, and pulls out a knife.

Not a ritual blade. Not something sacred or dipped in spell oil. Just a wicked, curved thing with a silver edge and a grip that looks worn from use.

She turns and hands it to me.

And I, like the idiot I am, take it with clammy, anxious, sweaty hands.

Because, yeah. I’ve done this before.

Not the sleeping-with-the-sin-binder part. That’s been... well-established.

But the bond?

Yeah. I’ve been bound. Briefly. Badly. And never like this. Never to someone who looked at me like this. Like I wasn’t just another mark. Another name. Another conquest. Her gaze is steady. Patient. Dangerous.

And mine? Mine is full of panic.

Because the second she lets go of the knife, I drop it. It clatters to the floor, loud as sin, metal bouncing once before the point drags across my palm on the way down.

A flash of heat.

A hiss of breath.

And then, blood.

Shit.

“Fuck,” I mutter, kneeling to grab it, gripping my hand like I’m trying not to bleed out in front of the woman I just said I loved.

When I glance up, expecting silence, judgment, maybe some ancient binder magic rage,

She’s laughing. Soft. Surprised. Real. Not cruel. Not mocking. Just that low, unexpected kind of laugh that breaks something inside me. Not because it hurts.

Because it doesn’t.

Because maybe for a second, she forgot to keep her walls up. Maybe for once, I was more than just the man tripping his way into her power.

I stand slowly, holding the knife in my good hand now, the other still bleeding.

“You good?” she asks, voice warm but sharp-edged, like she might enjoy watching me squirm.

“Fine,” I deadpan. “Just trying to be memorable.”

She moves closer.

And her fingers, cool, deliberate, wrap around my wounded palm, smearing the blood between us like she’s testing it.

Her eyes flick to mine. “You are.”

I’ve never wanted anything more than I want her in this moment, power, blood, bond and all.

Even if she devours me.

Especially if she does.

She doesn’t say anything. No warning. No question. No spell murmured between breaths.

Just, motion.

She takes the blade from my hand.

Not reverent. Not theatrical.

Just final.

And before I can process what the fuck is happening, she slices clean through her palm, deliberate, unflinching, and presses it straight to mine.

Holy shit.

It’s instant.