Page 10 of The Sin Binder's (The Seven Sins Academy #4)

Elias is lounging on the couch like he’s some fallen deity of sarcasm, one leg draped over the arm, fingers tapping like he’s composing the next great novel of petty warfare. My phone buzzes in my lap. Group chat. I already know it’s him. That cocky bastard's screen name flashes up—BigMeatEnergy—because of course it is.

BigMeatEnergy: you couldn’t even beat me in a thumb war, Waffles4LIFE. stay in your cereal lane.

I choke on my soda, laughing. That’s it. He wants to go? We’re going. I shift on the beanbag, crack my neck, and type back furiously.

Waffles4LIFE: i’d win a thumb war and steal your girl mid-match. check your priorities, King of Cowardice?

BigMeatEnergy: bold talk from a man who once got locked in a pantry for three hours and cried when he ran out of pop tarts.

Waffles4LIFE: it was strategic meditation. i ascended in that pantry.

BigMeatEnergy: you cried.

Waffles4LIFE: YOU weren’t there. it was emotional.

I hear him snort across the room. He’s trying not to laugh, but I catch the shake of his shoulders. He types again, slower this time. That always means he’s plotting something.

BigMeatEnergy: luna saw your cereal shrine. she’s reconsidering the bond.

I physically lunge across the room.

“You take that back!”

I yell, pointing at him, phone still clutched in my hand like a weapon of honor.

Elias raises an eyebrow, biting back a grin. “Just saying, man. You name your waffles.”

“That’s different!”

I spin on my heel, sending another message while yelling out loud. “That’s love. That’s devotion.”

Waffles4LIFE: say what you want, but your meat has never been big, energy or otherwise.

Elias slaps the couch arm like he’s just witnessed a public execution. “Low blow.”

“You started it,”

I mutter, settling back on the beanbag like I didn’t just threaten domestic war.

“She’s definitely going to pick me in the next apocalyptic showdown,”

I say casually, tossing a popcorn kernel in the air and catching it with my mouth.

Elias doesn’t even blink. “She already picked me. You’re just comic relief.”

He fires off another message.

BigMeatEnergy: i’d let you win. like a charity case.

Waffles4LIFE: you’re my charity case. i feed you. i clothe you. i let you live.

And then I send a meme. A very specific, deeply unholy meme involving waffles, meat, and one incredibly unfortunate caption. He groans like I’ve injured him.

“That’s going in the vault,”

he mutters.

I smirk, victorious—for now.

I set my phone down on the armrest, cracking my knuckles like some evil genius mid-plot. Elias had poked the bear. It was time for retribution. I already had a meme half-formed in my mind—something so stupid, so grotesquely beautiful, it would spiritually maim him. Maybe a fusion of waffle erotica and questionable meat metaphors. The thought alone made me snort.

And that’s when she walks past.

Luna.

Basket of laundry tucked against her hip, hair half-tied, mouth full of a hum. Just existing in that unholy way she does—like she has no idea the entire universe tilts a little when she’s near.

She throws me a smile in passing, soft and real, the kind that makes my brain short-circuit. But then her eyes flick down—land on my phone screen—and the smile falters.

Stops.

Crashes.

Her steps do too.

I glance at my phone, slow, like I can somehow reverse what’s already happening, and there it is. Fuck.

Not just any photo. The photo. One of those photos.

The one where her mouth is slightly open and her fingers are buried in my hair while I’m between her thighs, and the angle? Artistic—thank you very much. But that doesn’t matter. Because Luna’s looking at me like she’s about to shift into a higher evolutionary form of murder.

She drops the laundry basket. The world doesn’t stop—but my pulse sure as hell does.

“I—”

I blurt, diving for my phone like it might save me, but she’s already lunging across the couch. Her fingers snatch at the screen, and I scramble, rolling off the beanbag in the most undignified sprawl of my life.

“,”

she hisses, climbing over the armrest.

“It was research!”

I yelp, clutching the phone to my chest.

“Research?”

she echoes, incredulous, but there’s laughter chasing the fury in her voice. Dangerous laughter. Sexy, terrifying, about-to-ruin-my-life laughter. “ Veyd, you little pervert, why do you have that exact picture of me on your phone?”

“I have a folder,”

I mutter before I can stop myself.

“A folder?”

Gods. Take me now.

“It’s—look—technically it’s called ‘Sunlight & Sin,’ and it’s mostly just very tasteful nudes—”

She tackles me.

Full body. All limbs. I go down hard with a wheeze, phone flying out of my grip and landing god knows where. She’s on top of me, straddling my waist, fingers pinning my wrists to the floor, and she’s laughing now, eyes sparkling like this is the best moment of her entire damn life.

“You labeled a folder ‘Sunlight & Sin,’”

she repeats, in full mockery mode, and I groan, cheeks burning so hot I might combust.

“I panicked! I wanted it to sound...poetic!”

“You’re disgusting.”

“I’m in love with you, there’s a difference,”

I shoot back, grinning even though she’s probably going to strangle me.

Her breath catches—just a little. Enough.

We freeze.

Her hands still on my wrists. Her knees pressing into my hips. My heart thudding like a war drum, because I said it. Again. And I always mean it. She knows I mean it.

Luna stares down at me, all heat and mischief and god-tier curves, then lowers herself just enough to brush her mouth against mine—not a kiss. Just a whisper of promise.

“You’re still deleting the folder.”

I groan. “What if I—archival purposes? Historical record? My therapist—”

She bites my neck. Hard. I yelp and twist under her, laughing now, helpless in the best way.

“Say it,”

she demands, sitting up, triumphant.

“I’ll delete the folder,”

I say, mournful.

She boops my nose. “Good boy.”

And just like that, I’m ruined all over again. But I’ll be damned if I’m going down alone.

I point directly at Elias, sprawled like royalty on the couch, phone in hand and smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth. “He’s got them too,”

I announce dramatically, finger stabbing the air like it’s the final act of a courtroom drama. “Don’t let the meatstick fool you. His background used to be your ass in the moonlight.”

Elias chokes on absolutely nothing. His whole body convulses like I just drop-kicked him in the soul. “You traitorous dick fungus.”

Luna’s head snaps toward him. Her eyes narrow in that lethal way that means someone's about to cry, and it’s not going to be her.

“What exactly,”

she says, slow and deadly sweet, “is on your phone, Elias?”

The room goes still. Even the walls seem to lean in.

Elias opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “It’s… technically art?”

“Technically art,”

she repeats.

“There's lighting,”

he adds helpfully.

Riven’s sitting nearby, back stiff against the wall like he’s hoping if he stays still enough, he’ll go invisible. But Luna’s not done. Oh no. She’s just warming up.

Her gaze sweeps the room, eyes narrowed to slits. “Okay. Who else has inappropriate pictures of me as their background?”

The silence that follows is the kind that only happens in a room full of men with too much power and too few survival instincts.

Riven doesn’t speak. He just shoves his phone face-down between his thighs, like maybe his crotch will absorb the evidence through sheer panic. Ambrose—fucking Ambrose—casually tucks his phone into his back pocket like he’s not currently imagining her body in six different angles and high-res clarity. He’s doing that thing with his mouth again, the twitch of a smirk that’s all I already won this, but let’s pretend we’re playing fair.

And then there’s Caspian.

Caspian, who’s so broken and guilty lately he practically glows in the dark with it, just offers Luna a sheepish, cracked smile. He lifts his phone, flips it around, and shows her the screen.

Cats. Cartoon cats in wizard hats, floating in tea cups. The most wholesome, aggressively innocent wallpaper known to man.

“See?”

he says, voice soft, tentative. “I swapped it after the…uh…sobbing incident. Emotional support felines.”

Luna blinks at him.

Then blinks at the rest of us.

Then turns to me, arms crossing her chest like a damn war goddess, voice low and lethal. “. Folder. Gone. Now.”

“I deleted it this morning!”

I say too fast.

Elias snorts. “Liar.”

“I was going to delete it this morning,”

I amend, sheepishly, “But then she smiled at me while walking past, and I felt spiritually obligated to preserve history—”

Luna storms toward me. I squeak.

And all of us—every last Sin in this room—scatter like demons in daylight.

But not before I scream over my shoulder: “IF I’M BURNING, YOU’RE ALL BURNING WITH ME!”

The moment Luna tugs on the bond, it’s like being caught mid-fall and yanked back by a cord around my ribs. One second I’m halfway through a dramatic dive for the hallway—freedom within reach—and the next, I’m snapping upright like a cursed puppet. Elias, who had been right behind me, stumbles into the wall with a strangled gasp, eyes wide and betrayed. That damn pull she does—it’s not even aggressive, just absolute. It doesn’t ask. It takes.

I twist around, already scowling, and there she is. Standing in the middle of the living room with a laundry basket forgotten at her feet, barefoot and weaponized with that deceptively soft smile. Her gaze flicks from me to the others, and she lifts her phone with a single finger like it’s a loaded weapon.

“Couch. All of you. Shirts off,” she says.

Elias actually chokes. “I—what?”

His voice goes embarrassingly high-pitched.

She shrugs, walking a slow circle around us like a predator among startled prey. “You want to keep your little Luna nudes? Then sit for mine.”

It’s not a question. It’s a declaration of war.

At the far edge of the room, Riven’s still clinging to the doorframe like it’s the only thing anchoring him to reality. He hasn’t moved, but his glare could set fire to the drywall. She tilts her head, addressing him like a queen speaking to her most disobedient knight.

“Riven. Sit. Or I’ll make you.”

That gets him. He doesn’t speak—but the way his jaw locks says enough. A muscle twitches in his cheek as he storms forward, already peeling off his shirt with the reluctant fury of a man being dragged into hell.

Ambrose, naturally, hasn’t flinched. He’s not bound, not affected by the pull, but he still moves—methodical, unhurried, removing his jacket like this is just another strategic move. He folds it over the armrest before undoing the buttons on his shirt, every movement a quiet insult to our collective panic. Calculated indifference is a weapon for him, and he wields it with infuriating ease.

Caspian mutters something under his breath about “consensual thirst traps”

as he peels off his shirt like he’s undressing for a funeral. He moves slowly, almost mournfully, folding the fabric over his lap like it’s the only dignity he has left.

I, of course, am already shirtless—always prepared for spontaneous nudity—and sprawled across the center of the couch like a centerfold reject. I stretch out, arms behind my head, bare chest on full, obnoxious display. “Does this lighting bring out the tragic loss in my eyes?”

I ask the ceiling, smirking at the groans around me.

Elias wedges himself beside me, limbs stiff with discomfort, and elbows me sharply in the ribs. “Move over. You’re radiating heat like a hormonal furnace.”

I sniff him with exaggerated suspicion, then recoil. “Why are you so clammy? Are you nervous? Are you pre-sweating for the photo?”

He swats at me. “Shut. Up.”

Riven drops onto the far end like the couch insulted his family lineage, arms crossed, jaw locked, eyes daring anyone to speak to him. Luna’s holding the phone up now, grinning like a fox with a camera full of prey.

“No one look hot,”

Elias says through gritted teeth, voice full of doom. “If anyone flexes, I swear—”

I flex.

Caspian groans like he’s dying.

Ambrose, just to be contrary, tilts his head and casually adjusts the angle of his discarded shirt like he’s posing for a magazine cover.

Riven doesn’t move, but the fury radiating off him is enough to shake tectonic plates.

Luna lifts her phone and the shutter clicks.

“Perfect,”

she says sweetly. “Now one smiling.”

“Absolutely not,”

Riven snaps, low and lethal.

“Too late,”

I sing, grabbing the edge of Elias’s mouth and yanking it into a Joker-smile. He slaps me away, but it’s already done—she’s laughing, clicking away while the five of us are crammed together like a shirtless boyband no one asked for.

I lean into Elias. “You smell like regret and bad decisions.”

“You smell like permanent virginity.”

“I am a virgin. In the biblical sense,”

I shoot back, and wiggle my eyebrows at Luna. “Until she decided to baptize me in sin.”

She chokes, laughing so hard she nearly drops the phone. Ambrose sighs like he’s ten seconds from leaving the realm.

And me?

I just beam.

Because chaos is love. And I’m fucking smothered in it.

I think the moment Luna’s phone clicks again, something inside me breaks free—something dangerous. Something deeply unhinged.

She's standing there like a goddess-turned-photographer, pleased with her chaos, and I'm already plotting how to make it worse in the most beautiful way. The first picture was just the warm-up. The icebreaker. The shirtless therapy session none of us asked for. Now that the initial horror’s faded, they’re shifting, rearranging themselves like they're about to be featured on the centerfold of Sinful Quarterly.

Ambrose leans forward, forearms braced on his knees like he’s about to sell us a very exclusive brand of whiskey. Elias is trying—and failing—not to pout, one hand dragging through his already-messy hair like he’s been caught mid-wake-up. Caspian's doing that sultry thing with his eyes, which he doesn't mean to do, but dear gods, does he know it works. And Riven? He’s still glaring, but he's in frame, which means he’s participating under duress. That’s a win.

“Okay, now serious,”

Luna says, holding the phone steady. “Look like you’re about to kill someone.”

I immediately grab Elias and pull him into my lap.

“What the—!”

he sputters, trying to untangle himself. “That’s not serious!”

“It is if the murder’s passion-based,”

I say solemnly, and dip my chin like I’m about to whisper something obscene into his ear. The camera clicks. “We’re selling fantasy here, Elias. Let go. Be the art.”

Caspian snorts. “You’re a walking HR violation.”

“And yet,”

I grin, “still her favorite sin.”

“Absolutely not,”

Luna mutters through laughter. “Try again. No touching each other—”

“Too late,”

I cut in. “I’ve claimed Elias. He’s mine now. Look how well he perches.”

Elias elbows me in the gut. “I will literally throw myself out the window.”

“Do it hot,”

I whisper.

Behind me, Ambrose lets out a long-suffering sigh and angles himself toward Luna like he’s the moody lead in a noir film. Of course he nails it. Somehow the bastard makes brooding look like foreplay. Caspian’s lying back now, draped across the armrest like a painting, and even Riven leans into it—just barely. His arms cross tighter, his scowl deepens, but the cut of his jaw sharpens into something intentional. Purposeful. Posing without posing.

She takes another photo.

“This one’s going on the wall,”

Luna announces, delighted.

“The wall?”

Elias echoes, alarmed. “Like—a physical wall? People have to look at it?”

“You’ve seen yourself, right?”

I ask him. “You’re welcome, world.”

Luna steps in closer now, angling the phone down slightly. “Now smolder.”

I’m ready.

I tip my head back, part my lips, and make the face I imagine I’d have right before kissing her neck and proposing something entirely illegal. Ambrose watches me like he’s considering homicide. Riven mutters something about someone’s “soul leaking out through their grin.”

“Okay, okay,”

Luna laughs, barely holding the phone still. “That’s enough.”

But now they’re into it.

Caspian slides to the floor, crouched like a sin-stained predator. “How about a candid?”

he says to no one in particular. Elias flips his hair like a shampoo ad gone rogue. Even Riven subtly turns his face toward the light. My gods. I’ve infected them.

I lean toward Luna, stage-whispering, “Want one where I bite Elias?”

“No!”

Elias says too fast.

“Yes,”

I say louder.

“No,”

Riven growls.

“Yes,”

Caspian agrees, far too amused.

Ambrose says nothing, but I see him mouthing do it just to stir shit.

“Guys—”

Luna tries.

Too late. I lunge.

Elias shrieks. The couch implodes. All our limbs collapse into each other in a pile of sin and pride and bare skin and chaos. Phones go flying. Caspian yelps. Ambrose curses in languages no one but Orin probably remembers. Riven growls loud enough to shake the floorboards.

Luna’s laughing so hard she’s crying.

And me? I’m in the center of the wreckage, still half on Elias, shirtless, grinning so wide it might split me open.

“Best. Photo. Shoot. Ever.”