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I don’t bother knocking. I slam the door open like I’ve got every right to be here, because I do, and because I’m done tiptoeing around his moods like they’re loaded weapons. Lucien’s already looking at me when I step inside, like he’s been waiting for me to lose my patience. His whole frame is rigid, his posture carved out of ice and steel, one hand braced on the edge of the window like he’s holding himself back from tearing the whole damn place down.

The look he gives me is enough to make lesser creatures back down. “What the hell do you want?”

The words are clipped, mechanical, like I’m already an inconvenience.

I shut the door harder than necessary, let it rattle in the frame just to watch his jaw twitch. “I want you to stop acting like a sulking child.”

A muscle feathers in his jaw. He doesn’t move, but the tension in the room spikes sharp enough to draw blood. “Get out.”

“No.”

My refusal hangs there, and I can see the flicker of something dangerous in his eyes. I cross the room toward him, slow, deliberate, because I’m not about to let him hide behind distance or whatever bullshit wall he’s tried to shove between us these past few days. “You’ve been avoiding me like the plague since the night we slept together,” I say, voice flat, the accusation sharp and deliberate. “You leave the room when I walk in, you don’t look at me, and when you do, it’s like I ruined your entire fucking life.”

Lucien straightens, his frame unfolding like a blade unsheathing. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

“And you shouldn’t be throwing a tantrum,” I snap back. “But here we are.”

His eyes darken, colder than usual, that calculating edge he keeps behind his pretty face slipping free. “You think this is about you?”

I laugh, a humorless sound, brittle and cracked. “Isn’t it? You’ve been storming around like someone kicked your favorite toy, but you won’t even admit why.”

He closes the distance, slow, measured, dangerous. He’s taller, broader, made of things that were designed to make people fall to their knees. But I don’t move. I meet him, head-on, because I’ve been through hell and back and Lucien Virelius is not the thing that’s going to break me.

“You’re not special,” he says quietly, voice like ice water down my spine. “Don’t mistake proximity for power.”

The words cut sharper than they should. It’s petty. Petty and cruel and exactly what I expect from him. I step into his space anyway, daring, furious. “No, but I was special enough for you to crawl into bed with me.”

He flinches—so slight most people wouldn’t see it—but I do. Because I’m watching for it. Because I know him better than he wants me to.

“That was a mistake,” he says, voice tight, and I hate how much that hurts.

“Then why are you still looking at me like you want to set the whole world on fire?”

Lucien lets out a breath like I’ve punched him, dragging a hand through his hair like he’s trying to pull himself back together, and failing. “Because I don’t regret it,” he mutters, each word heavy, jagged. “And that’s the fucking problem.”

I blink, thrown, but he doesn’t let me speak.

“You’re the problem,” he continues, voice harsher now, angrier. “You’ve always been the problem. Since the day you stepped into this world.”

My throat tightens. I want to scream at him. Want to hit something, hit him maybe. Instead, I hiss, “You’re a coward.”

He’s on me in an instant, voice like shattered glass. “Don’t talk to me about cowardice. You have no idea what I’ve done to keep all of you alive.”

“You’re not keeping anyone alive,” I bite back. “You’re just trying to survive your own mess.”

He looks at me then, like I’m something he wants to destroy just so he won’t have to want me anymore. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“And you have no idea what you’re doing,” I snap. “You keep trying to pretend you don’t want me when everyone can see you do.”

We stare at each other like two storms circling, waiting to see who will tear the other apart first.

Lucien’s mouth curls, sharp and venomous, his eyes like black glass catching every crack I’ve left open.

“You think any of us wanted you?” His voice is silk over barbed wire, deceptively soft. “You think we sat around dreaming of the day some fragile, reckless little binder would stumble into our lives and tether us to her like fucking dogs?”

I flinch, but he doesn’t stop. He’s past the point of restraint now, and I can feel the weight of every dark, jagged thing he’s been choking on finally spilling out.

“You were a mistake,” he snarls, stepping into me, crowding me without touching, voice dropping to a cold whisper that slices deeper than if he’d screamed it. “You were never supposed to exist. You’re a complication none of us asked for. You walked into this, and you made yourself ours like it was some fucking fairy tale, and now we’re trapped.”

I can feel the words sinking beneath my skin, acid in my veins, and still he goes on.

“You think they love you?” He laughs, bitter and mean. “They love the idea of you. They love the bind. The magic. The fact that when you bleed, they taste it. That’s all you’ve ever been—a pretty little noose.”

Something cracks in my chest, sharp and awful, but I don’t back down. I can’t.

“You don’t get to tell me what I am,” I grind out, voice splintered around the ache building in my throat.

His smile is cruel now, jagged. “Don’t I?” He leans in, so close I can taste the liquor on his breath, cold and sharp and burning. “You should’ve left us the fuck alone.”

The words hit louder than the slap I want to give him. I feel them punch through me, right through the soft, stupid parts I try to protect.

I stare at him, chest tight, throat raw. “You don’t mean that.”

He laughs again, low and ugly. “You want me to lie to you, ? I mean every fucking word.”

I swallow around the sting in my throat and look at him like he’s a stranger, because right now, he is.

Because he wants to hurt me. And he’s done a damn good job of it.

“You think you’re the center of this,” he says, cold, calculated, every word placed like a dagger meant to find the softest parts of me. “You think you’re special because we let you stay.”

I open my mouth, but he talks over me, relentless.

“You’re not special, . You’re a burden we carry because we don’t know how to drop you without shattering everything else.” His smile is razor-sharp, empty. “And maybe that’s why you’re still here. Not because we want you. Because it’s easier to let you cling to us than to tear you off.”

I can't breathe. He’s not yelling. He’s surgical about it—cold, controlled destruction.

“You think Elias wants you?” Lucien’s laugh is sharp, humorless. “He likes how easy you are to fuck. He likes the attention. That’s all. And Silas?” He sneers. “Silas would bond himself to a fucking rock if it looked at him the right way.”

My throat burns. I want to move, to leave, but I can’t. He’s still talking, voice dipping even lower, crueler.

“Riven? Riven’s spent centuries trying to fix things he can’t. You’re just another thing for him to fail at. And Ambrose…” Lucien’s mouth twists, eyes hollow. “Ambrose keeps you because you let him. He doesn’t love you, . He likes how you fold for him.”

He takes a step back, but it doesn’t give me space—it leaves me stranded.

“You’re not their salvation,” he says. “You’re not the thing holding us together. You’re the fracture in all of us.”

That’s the one that splits something open inside me.

And then, softer—softer in a way that hurts more than anything else—he adds, “If you disappeared tomorrow, nothing would fall apart. We’d survive. We'll forget you.”

He looks at me like he’s already forgetting. Like I was never real at all.

He’s circling now, pacing like a predator who knows he’s already broken the thing he’s hunting but can’t help but finish it.

“You want me to say it?” His voice is sharp, merciless. “Fine. You’re not enough, . You were never enough. You’re a girl who stumbled into something you don’t understand, clinging to us like we’re the answer to something.”

He stops in front of me, close enough that I can feel the heat of him—but it’s not warmth. It’s wildfire, meant to burn me down.

“We’re gods,” he says, voice low and lethal. “We’re monsters. We’re made of the kind of magic that cracks the bones of worlds. And you—” He looks me over like I’m something pathetic. “You’re just a fucking kid. You don’t belong here. You don’t belong with us.”

My lungs lock, and he watches it happen. Watches me crumble piece by piece.

“You think fate did this?” he keeps going, savage now. “That the universe tied us to you out of destiny? No. It’s a joke. A cosmic mistake.”

He leans in, voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “We could have anyone. Any binder, any creature, anyone worthy enough to stand beside us. And instead, we got you. Fragile. Mortal. Stupid.”

The tears sting, but I refuse to let them fall. He knows it. And he twists the knife.

His laugh is hollow, vicious. “They’re playing with you. Like we always do. You’re something to pass the time while we’re trapped in this fucking place.”

I shake my head, but he isn’t finished.

“And me?” His eyes darken, voice fracturing into something sharp and final. “You can stop hoping I’ll change. That I’ll come around. I’m done. I’m not going to touch you again. Not going to look at you the way you want.”

The next words gut me.

“If I had the choice, —I’d let this place swallow you whole. I’d let you die before I ever let you ruin us.”

He looks at me like I’m already dead.

And then he turns his back.

I don’t say anything.

Not when Lucien’s words carve me open like a dull, jagged blade. Not when he looks at me like I am something less than nothing—like I was always destined to be the mistake that burned everything down. I don’t speak because there is nothing left in me but the echo of his cruelty, the acid weight of every word still bleeding beneath my skin. If I open my mouth now, it won’t be to argue. It will be to fall apart. And I refuse to give him that.

So I leave.

I turn without ceremony, without so much as a glance over my shoulder. My steps are quiet, measured, and I wonder if that makes it worse—that I can walk away from him like this, like he never mattered. Like his voice isn’t still embedded in my marrow.

When I reach my room, I don’t hesitate. I move with the kind of efficiency that feels dangerous, mechanical. My fingers close around the leather satchel tucked beneath my bed, the one I’ve kept there like a wound, untouched but never forgotten. I empty drawers without thought, stuffing clothes, a blade, a single vial of salve Caspian handed me weeks ago with a crooked smile and a muttered, "You’re trouble, Binder." A fragment of magic, woven and folded small, something Riven taught me to keep close.

It’s not enough. Nothing would be enough.

But I pack anyway, because I know if I stay another minute in this house, I’ll unravel.

The bonds pulse in the back of my mind, bright, unbearable threads that have always hummed beneath my skin like a song I could never silence. I feel them now—each of them. Silas, Elias, Riven, Caspian, Ambrose. One by one, I close the door on them.

I don’t ease it shut. I slam it.

It’s brutal, ugly, and it costs me more than I thought it would. When I force each bond closed, I feel it like something breaking in my chest, like I’m pulling my own ribs out one by one. I taste blood when I cut the last thread.

The window groans when I shove it open, the hinges screaming against the quiet night. The air outside is sharp enough to slice skin, scented like damp earth and ruin, like everything in this realm is rotting beautifully from the inside out. It wraps around me as I climb onto the sill, licking at my ankles like it’s been waiting for me all along.

I don’t look back.

If I do, I’ll fold. If I do, I’ll crawl back into that house, back to them, and let them tear me to pieces all over again. So I swing my legs over the ledge, steady myself on the frame, and drop down into the darkness.

The woods swallow me whole, the trees bending low like they recognize me, like they’ve been waiting for me to finally break free. I don’t stop to breathe. I don’t stop to think.

I run because I can't stay. Because every word Lucien spat at me still vibrates in my chest like shrapnel, cutting deeper with every step. Because he was right. Maybe he always has been. And it doesn’t matter how many times Silas tells me he loves me, or how Elias trips over his stupid, snarky comments just to make me smile, or how Ambrose watches me like he’s trying not to want me. None of it matters, because at the end of the day, I’m the outsider. The mistake. The mortal girl who thought she could hold gods in her hands and not get burned.

The trees blur past me, branches slapping at my arms and face, the forest floor uneven beneath my feet. I don’t slow down. I can’t. If I stop, I’ll shatter. I already feel the cracks spidering under my skin, the sting of unshed tears burning my throat, my ribs heaving around the weight of what he said.

You’re not good enough.

They could have anyone.

You should have died.

I press a hand to my chest as if I can hold myself together, but the hollow space where their bonds used to pulse—where I used to feel them, steady and warm and real—aches like a fresh wound. I closed them off. I slammed every door. I locked them out because I had to, because hearing them now, feeling them now, would destroy me.

The tears come hot and fast, streaking down my cheeks as I stumble through the trees. My breath is ragged, shallow. I wipe at my face with the back of my hand like it’ll make a difference, but the ache is lodged too deep. I run harder, faster, like I can outrun the way he looked at me. Like I can outrun the truth.

The Hollow shifts around me, the trees bending inward, the shadows curling tighter the deeper I go. It’s alive here. I can feel it watching, waiting, the way the ground almost breathes beneath my feet. This place has teeth, and it’s always hungry.

Maybe I want it to swallow me whole.

The branches snag at my clothes, the undergrowth ripping at my ankles, but I don’t stop. My lungs burn. My legs shake. But I keep running because the alternative is worse—because if I stop, I’ll have to face what I already know.

I’ll never be enough. Not for them. Not for this realm. Not for myself. The ground shifts beneath me and I stumble, falling hard against the damp earth. My hands scrape against rough bark, dirt grinding beneath my nails. I press my forehead to the ground, my whole body shaking, a raw, ugly sound tearing from my throat.

For the first time in weeks, I let myself cry. No one is here to see me fall apart. No one to pick me back up. And I think maybe that’s the point.