Page 26

Caspian’s snoring again. Not the soft kind either. The full-bodied, sleep-drunk, mouth-wide-open kind that would be funny if his arm wasn’t flopped over Elias like a goddamn body pillow. Elias is too tired to fight it. His face is buried half into Cas’s shoulder, one leg thrown over a pack, and I swear if my phone had even two percent left, I’d be recording this for eternity. Maybe even blackmail.

Instead, I sit with my back against the damp wall of the shelter. -made—my hands sunk into the earth hours ago and shaped it to hold her, to keep all of them warm and dry and safe. It’s not magic. Not really. Just instinct. The bond made me something more than a weapon. It made me someone who builds instead of breaks.

Only for her.

They’re all circled tight, bodies touching—like proximity will protect her. Like fate hasn’t already chosen how this ends.

Luna’s in the center.

Of course she is.

She always is.

Asleep, finally. One hand curled near her cheek, lips parted. Her brow isn’t furrowed anymore. I watch her chest rise and fall in a rhythm that slows mine down too, keeps the monster in me from pacing its cage.

Lucien sleeps closest to her.

I nearly put a blade through him when he chose that spot. But he didn’t argue. He just sat down like he was daring me to say something. I didn’t. Not because I accepted it—but because Luna didn’t push him away.

And now he’s turned toward her.

Has been for an hour.

I watch him—how he doesn’t blink, how his fingers ghost over her face once like he isn’t fully in control of them. He brushes a strand of hair off her temple, careful. Reverent.

And I hate him for it. Not because he feels it. But because he won’t admit it. Because he wants her and punishes her for it at the same time.

She stirs under his gaze. Doesn’t wake. Just shifts. Tucks herself closer to Silas’s side, which makes Lucien tense like he’s been cut open.

Good.

Maybe that’s what he needs.

A reminder that she won’t be his unless he chooses her back.

Ambrose sits next to me, arms draped over his knees, looking too smug for someone who just came back from a near breakdown. His eyes are on her too. But his are soft in that unnerving Ambrose way—like he knows something the rest of us haven’t caught up to yet.

He leans in close, breath barely a whisper.

“You were right about her.”

I glance sideways. “No shit.”

He smiles, faint and strangely real.

“I mean it,” he says. “I fought it. You all saw that. But it’s real. The bond. Her. All of it. I didn’t want this, but—fuck—I’m glad for it now.”

That’s a lot for him. For Ambrose to admit anything with sincerity, let alone gratitude. I stare at him, and for a moment, we’re not enemies circling the same flame.

We’re brothers.

Not by blood. By her.

“I knew she’d be different,” I murmur. “Didn’t know it’d be like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like she’d undo every part of me I thought was permanent.”

Ambrose huffs a breath and tips his head back to the cavern ceiling.

“Yeah,” he says. “That.”

I settle deeper into the rock, arms folded across my chest, eyes back on Luna.

They think she’s asleep. That she can’t feel us watching. But I know better.

Even in dreams, she feels us.

She anchors us. And when the storm comes again—and it will—we’ll all be sharper for it. Because we’ve been reforged by her.

I wanted us farther from the village. Farther from the women with their soft voices and knowing eyes. From the stories written into their skin—scars that don’t fade, hands that have touched every part of us in other lives and still think they have a claim.

Luna didn’t argue. She never does.

But I saw it anyway. The way her steps slowed. The way her breath changed. She’s good at hiding it, but I know her body like it’s mine. When her spine stiffens, when her weight shifts to favor one side—I know.

She was tired.

So we stopped.

A cave with one entrance, backs to the stone, treeline ahead. Just enough coverage to shield the fire. Not enough to shake the feeling crawling up the back of my neck.

The others are asleep—or pretending to be. Silas muttered something about dreamwalking into one of his past hookups and passed out face-first on his cloak. Elias curled beside Caspian again, both of them a tangle of limbs and exhaustion. Orin hasn’t moved since sunset. Still as carved obsidian. Watching Luna the way a scholar studies the last page of a prophecy.

I said nothing. But I saw how she tilted her head toward me, how her fingers brushed mine before she slipped under the fur. She knew I’d be on watch. She wanted me here.

I keep my hand resting on the hilt at my hip. Not drawn. Not yet. But ready.

Because I don’t trust this place.

Not even with Maeve.

She smiled at me today, and it hurt in a way I didn’t expect. I loved her once. Really loved her. A hundred years ago, maybe longer—I don’t count the lifetimes anymore. I held her while she died, and I mourned her like it meant something permanent.

It didn’t.

She’s here now, alive in a place that makes no fucking sense. Kind. Gentle. Familiar.

And I don’t trust her. Because I’ve trusted women who used sweetness as a weapon. And right now, Luna is the only one of them who doesn’t make me flinch. Her lashes twitch with dreams I’d kill to protect. I know she’s safe for now. I made this earth cradle her. Sealed the edges of the cave tight with root and rock.

But still.

Still.

The village knows we’re here now.

They saw the bonds, felt the magic between us. They saw what she is to us—not just another binder. The binder. And if they think there’s even a chance she can be removed—

If they think someone else could take her place—

Would they try? Would they hurt her, just to test the magic? None of us know how it works. Not really. There are no rules anymore. No logic. Just desperation. And I don’t trust what desperation makes people do. They wouldn’t come for us. They’d come for her. To end her. To try and steal what’s ours. And I will fucking bury this entire realm before I let that happen.

I sit forward, elbows braced on my knees, eyes trained on the trees. The night air tastes like secrets and wet leaves. Every now and then, I think I see movement. Flickers of light. Eyes that blink and vanish.

Let them try.

Let them come.

I'll be the last thing they ever see.

The sound is wrong. Not loud. Barely more than a breath—the quiet hiss of something parting the air with too much purpose. A breeze couldn’t make that sound. Neither could the trees. It’s too clean. Too precise.

And Lucien moves.

He doesn’t startle. Doesn’t flinch. He just shifts from a dead sleep like he was already awake, body rolling over Luna’s with the kind of precision that doesn’t come from thinking—it comes from training. Instinct. One second he’s still, the next he’s draped over her, arms braced, back curving protectively as the arrow lands with a solid, sickening thunk.

Right where her head had been.

It buries deep in his shoulder, the shaft still trembling from the force.

I’m on my feet before the next breath leaves my lungs. Lucien doesn’t make a sound. Doesn’t swear. Doesn’t even look at the blood that’s already soaking through his shirt. He shifts just enough to pull Luna under him, curling her closer like he’s the fucking shield he’s always pretended not to be. Her eyes snap open, wild, confused—and then furious as they lock on mine.

Because we both know what’s happening.

We were right.

Another arrow whistles through the dark, striking the wall of stone behind us with a crack. Then another. And another. A rain of them, slicing the night open with the hiss of betrayal made airborne.

They’re not trying to kill us.

They’re trying to herd us.

Elias is swearing, loudly and creatively, while dragging Caspian toward cover, the pair of them half-dressed, half-lucid, and still faster than any human has a right to be.

Orin is already moving like he saw it coming. He doesn’t shout. Doesn’t draw steel. He walks toward the treeline like he’s been waiting for this exact moment to unfold, and something in the air shifts around him.

But I don't look away from Luna.

She’s on her knees now, hands braced in the dirt, her face a mask of fury and confusion and magic she hasn’t called on yet but will. And I don’t let myself feel the fear rising in my throat, because if I let it live, it’ll own me.

I step toward her, catching her chin with one hand. “Stay down,” I say, voice low, sharp.

Lucien’s blood drips onto her shoulder as he braces above her, still silent, still watching, and in that moment I know—he would’ve died gladly if it meant she lived another second. And that kind of loyalty, from him, cuts deeper than anything.

Arrows stop.

Stillness, sudden and sharp.

Then a voice from the trees. Feminine. Familiar. Too sweet.

“Give her to us.”

Luna stiffens.

Ambrose tilts his head. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

A laugh. It scrapes against the dark like a blade. “The bond isn’t permanent. Not if we take her now.”

The fury that rises in me isn’t hot. It’s cold. Clinical. The kind of rage that doesn’t scream. It builds.

Lucien speaks for the first time, his voice ruined with pain, but calm as the grave. “Try it.”

Silas barks a laugh, but there’s nothing soft in it. “Ladies,” he calls, arms open. “We’re not in the mood for a reunion. If you want to die tonight, at least put on a little lipstick first.”

They move. Figures from the dark. Four. Maybe five. Not all of them armed, but all of them intentional. I don’t wait. I launch forward, blades drawn, fury leashed only by the fact that Luna is still behind me, still breathing, still watching.

The first woman reaches for me. She doesn’t make it past my knives.

The woman I cut down doesn’t scream. She just hits the ground and smiles, blood pouring from her throat like it means nothing, like pain is irrelevant here. Because it is. Because death isn’t death in this place. It’s a state of being. And these women? These Sin Binders who once held us by the throat and between their legs—they’re not alive enough to die.

Another one takes her place before the body hits the dirt.

She’s faster. Blonde. I know her name—Lira. She used to bite when she kissed, used to pull Elias into her bed when he was too angry to be funny. She wore her bond to us like armor, and now she lunges for Luna with her mouth open, eyes rabid with the kind of hunger that has nothing to do with lust.

I drive my blade through her stomach. It doesn’t stop her. She claws at me, still smiling, whispering she’s not yours in a voice too sweet, too familiar. I twist the knife, slam her back into the earth hard enough to rattle the roots, and when she falls, another takes her place.

The woods are bleeding women.

Dozens of them, faces I know, bodies we’ve touched, names we’ve forgotten and remembered and tried to bury. They come barefoot, bloody, some wearing the silks they died in. They all have the same expression—that same fucking grin like they know something we don’t. Like the Hollow told them how this ends, and it ends with Luna broken and gone.

Lucien’s got one hand pressed to the arrow shaft as he forces himself upright. Not to defend himself—but to block the next wave from reaching her. He’s not even armed. He doesn’t care. He’s all instinct and Dominance and pure, silent hatred. And it’s beautiful. Terrifying.

Silas is laughing now, wild and wide-eyed, a dagger in each hand and blood smeared across his cheek like warpaint. He’s dodging between attacks like it’s a fucking dance, shouting things like “Not even a hello? Rude!” and “You didn’t scream like that when I was inside you, Delia!” as he cuts and spins and kicks another woman back into the trees.

Ambrose moves through them like a storm. Fluid. Deadly. Efficient. He doesn’t shout. Doesn’t break a sweat. He just keeps them from getting close. One touch from him drops a binder where she stands, even if she doesn’t stay down. He’s buying Luna seconds, minutes, breath.

Elias is right beside Caspian now, both of them back-to-back. Caspian’s eyes are empty in the way they get when he’s too calm—when the numbness slips over him like armor. And Elias? Elias is yelling something about syphilis and contracts and “this isn’t a harem, it’s a fucking siege!” as he punches one of his exes square in the face.

And in the center—Luna.

On her feet now, hands clenched at her sides, magic crackling low and angry beneath her skin. She hasn’t used it yet. She won’t—not unless she has to. Because she doesn’t want to hurt them. Not really.

She still thinks some of them can be saved.

I don’t.

I cut another one down, a redhead I used to let ride me just to shut her up. She hisses something about fate, about how Luna’s too soft to carry our power, about how we’ll forget her once the bond fades. I slam the heel of my boot into her jaw and break it sideways.

She giggles.

They keep coming. Bodies piling. Blood soaking the grass. But none of them stay down. This isn’t a fight—it’s a fucking test. Of endurance. Of loyalty. Of what we’re willing to do to keep her.

And they’re trying to prove we’re not willing to do enough.

Luna’s eyes meet mine.

Wide. Wild. And finally—ready.

The magic bursts from her hands like a scream, raw and radiant, violet and gold laced with something darker, older. It cuts through the women like wind through fire, and for a second, the world stills.

They drop. Dozens of them. But not dead. Just burned.

And she’s still standing. Hair wild. Hands shaking. Chest heaving. Mine. Every bond in my body howls for her. Every inch of me aches to drag her into my arms and devour the space between us. But we’re not done.

Because through the smoke, through the blood and ash and silence—

Maeve walks forward.

Unaffected. Calm.

And she smiles like this is exactly what she wanted.

Lucien steps forward, blood slick down his arm from the arrow still buried in his shoulder, jaw clenched like the only thing holding him together is fury. The kind that doesn’t yell. The kind that burns. The kind that only Luna ever seems to ignite properly.

And right now, she’s behind me, shaking and radiant and very much alive—which is the only reason I let him pass.

Maeve looks at him like he’s an errant dog trying to snarl at the wrong end of a leash. She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t stop walking. Her gown’s untouched by ash, her skin too smooth, too whole for a corpse. But she is one. She has to be. I remember holding her broken body while I bled out beside her, kissing her mouth that had already gone cold. But she walks like resurrection is a choice she made. Not a gift she earned.

Lucien blocks her path with that stillness he’s always had—that quiet, terrifying gravity. “You don’t get near her.”

Maeve tuts, soft, indulgent. “Lucien. You always did overestimate your importance.”

Lucien, who would’ve cleaved through anyone—anything—to protect us, doesn’t lift a hand. Not to stop her. Not to draw her blood. He just stands there, caught in her orbit like a man watching a ghost he thought he buried deep enough to forget.

Her eyes flick to his shoulder. “Still so dramatic,” she murmurs. “Taking an arrow for a girl you obviously do not to care about. Or was it guilt? Trying to make up for all the things you didn’t do for me?”

Lucien’s lip curls. Not in defense. In disgust.

“You’re not real,” he says, low. “You’re what the Hollow made of your memory.”

Maeve just smiles wider, stepping so close her breath kisses his throat. “Then stop me.”

He doesn’t.

I do.

I close the distance in three steps, shoving myself between them, not gently. My body takes the hit of her magic, the cold aura that clings to her like rot beneath perfume. She’s stronger than she was. She shouldn’t be. But this place—this twisted echo of the world—feeds on old power, and she has too much of ours still clinging to her skin.

“Try it,” I growl, hand at the hilt of my blade. “Come one step closer, and I’ll give the Hollow your bones.”

Maeve tilts her head, studying me like I’m a new language she already speaks. “Still so volatile, ,” she murmurs. “Still so sure you know what you’re protecting.”

“She’s mine,” I snap.

“No,” she says gently. “She’s ours. Or have you forgotten what you were before her? Who you belonged to before your bond was rewritten?”

Behind me, I hear Luna’s breath catch.

And that—that—is the only warning I get before her power lashes out again, not like fire, but like force. Like the rage of something divine. It surges forward and slams into Maeve, lifting her off her feet and throwing her back against the trees, hard enough to crack bark and bone.

Maeve laughs.

It’s a choked, bloody sound, but still soft. “There she is.”

And Maeve rises, eyes full of something cruel and glittering.

“I only came to offer a trade,” she says, brushing ash from her collarbone. “You’ve made your choice.”

She looks to Luna.

“You’ll regret it.”