Page 12 of The Sin Binder's (The Seven Sins Academy #4)

Silas leans in, one knee on the couch and his tongue poking out the side of his mouth like this is surgery and not eyeliner.

“Stop blinking, baby,”

he mutters, dragging the pencil across my lash line. “You keep twitching like I’m about to stab your eye out. Do you not trust me?”

“I’ve seen you try to make toast,”

I say dryly. “I don’t trust you with a toaster, Silas.”

He gasps like I’ve betrayed him, pulling back just enough to clutch his chest in theatrical horror. “You wound me. Emotionally. Spiritually. Sexually.”

“You’re not touching me sexually if you give me raccoon eyes,”

I deadpan.

That gets his focus back. He squints, tilts my chin with a finger, and resumes his work like he's Michelangelo and my face is the Sistine Chapel. Which is terrifying, because Michelangelo never had ADHD and glitter eyeliner in the same toolkit.

Somewhere across the room, Elias groans. “Why are we doing glam before a break-in? Is this a heist or a fucking photoshoot?”

“Why can’t it be both?”

Silas tosses over his shoulder. “ deserves to look criminally hot.”

I snort, and Elias mutters something about needing a sedative. Probably for himself. Or Silas. Or me.

Ambrose isn’t here yet, which is fine. I don’t need his permission for this. I don’t need anyone’s. He made the suggestion, but it’s my decision to follow it. Headmaster Blackwell left this place locked and rotting while the rest of the supernatural world unraveled. If he thinks I’m going to wait around like a docile binder while they puppet the strings behind the scenes—well. He really hasn't been paying attention.

Silas taps my cheek twice. “Done,”

he announces, sitting back like he’s proud of himself.

I glance at my reflection in the cracked mirror near the window. It's… dramatic. Smudged black wings pulled out like they could slice if I blink too hard, shimmer caught in the corners, making me look half-dead, half-divine.

“I look like a villain’s favorite mistake,” I murmur.

Silas beams. “That’s what I was going for.”

“Perfect,”

I say, standing. “Let’s go rob the academy.”

Silas turns with a gleam in his eye and the eyeliner still clenched between his fingers like a dagger. “Your turn,”

he announces with deadly cheer, eyes locked on Elias.

Elias—bless him—doesn’t even pretend to consider it. He bolts from the armchair like it’s on fire, tripping over his own foot as he scrambles backward. “Don’t come near me with that demon pencil,”

he barks, fumbling behind the couch like it might swallow him up and save him.

“You’re the one who said I was wasting my talents,”

Silas sings, stalking after him, eyeliner in hand and a wild smile curving his mouth. “Now let me bless your face with my artistic rage.”

“Artistic rage?”

Elias hisses, holding up a throw pillow like a shield. “You made her look like a Bond villain and a backup dancer for Hades’ drag show.”

“I take that as a compliment.”

I don’t move to stop them. Watching them is like watching fire flirt with oil. Glorious and doomed.

“I swear to all the Hollow’s cracked bones, Silas, if you touch me with that thing—”

“You’ll what?”

Silas dares, crouching on the couch now, eyeliner still poised. “Scream? Cry? Moan a little?”

Elias makes a noise that’s half disgust, half something else he probably doesn’t want to admit, and it makes me grin. Caspian walks in at that exact moment, blinking once at the scene: Silas lunging over the couch, Elias halfway behind it like a cornered cat, and me, leaning on the counter, eyeliner wings sharp enough to slice egos.

“What the hell is happening?”

Caspian asks, his voice rough with sleep and disdain.

“Silas thinks he’s a makeup artist,”

Elias grits out, still pinned by the threat of glitter and chaos.

“Correction,”

Silas says, teeth bared in a grin, “I am a makeup artist. I just happen to specialize in unwilling canvases.”

Caspian walks past us and grabs a water bottle from the fridge, cracking it open with a twist of his wrist, like none of this is worth intervening in. “If you get eyeliner on the couch again, Riven’s gonna burn your soul out of your body.”

“I don’t fear Riven,”

Silas replies breezily.

“I do,”

I mutter, and that gets a bark of laughter out of Caspian.

Elias finally shoves Silas off him with a groan. “, make him stop.”

“I’m not your babysitter,”

I say sweetly, hopping off the counter and sliding past them. “Besides, you’d look great with a little smoky shadow.”

Elias glares at me like I’ve committed a war crime.

Silas winks. “See? The queen has spoken.”

I leave them there, still bickering like idiot gods in mortal bodies, and head toward the garage.

Silas and Elias come crashing out of the house like badly-behaved fireworks, shouting over each other, one of them probably still holding a tube of eyeliner like a damn weapon. Elias stumbles down the porch steps, eyes wide with laughter and chaos, and Silas is two steps behind him, howling something about “beauty is pain, baby!”

Caspian follows behind them at a saunter, hands buried in his pockets, mouth curled in that soft sad smile he wears now. He doesn’t say anything, just walks like a storm disguised in silk, glancing at me only once—and it’s enough to make my skin hum.

Ambrose is already there. Leaning against the black iron fence that borders the estate, perfectly still, perfectly unreadable. The moon slicks across his cheekbones, painting him colder than usual, if that’s even possible. He doesn’t acknowledge the others. Doesn’t need to. He’s waiting for Riven.

So am I.

But I can’t stop my eyes from drifting down the hill, past the weeping pines, to the shadowed silhouette of the school. It looks abandoned in a way that feels intentional. Like something watching you from behind the blinds. The gates are still warded. I can feel the hum of power threaded through them even from here—a dense, ancient spellwork meant to keep us out. Or something else in.

Blackwell hasn’t returned. Neither have the students. Not since Severin set this place ablaze in fear and blood, and the Council swept through like a cleansing fire. But the building stands. The Academy doesn’t fall easily, not without taking pieces of you with it.

“Looks friendly,”

Elias says, breathless, already pulling a silver ring from his pocket—one etched in wards I haven’t seen before. “Shall we knock, or break the door like psychos?”

“I vote for both,”

Silas grins, eyes lit. “We knock first—then blow it up when no one answers.”

“Of course you do,”

Caspian murmurs, not looking at him.

Ambrose speaks finally, low and clean. “We don’t touch the front entrance. That’s where he’ll have layered the deepest protections. We go in through the chapel. The wards will still sting, but it’s our best shot at getting past them without waking whatever he’s bound into the floors.”

That silences everyone. The chapel.

I glance at Silas, and for once—even he’s quiet.

“What do you think we’ll find?”

I ask. The question is meant for Ambrose, but it’s Riven who answers as he steps through the gate behind us.

“Secrets,”

he says. “And probably something that wants to kill us.”

He doesn’t look at me, but when his hand brushes mine, he lets it linger for a second too long before walking ahead.

The others follow. And I do too—toward the place that made us all what we are, toward the office of a man who’s been silent too long, toward whatever truth the Academy buried beneath its stones.

The Hollow is shifting again. And I’m done being careful.

Riven’s back is to us at first, his silhouette sharp and carved in shadow, framed by the splintered moonlight filtering through the trees that claw at the chapel. The doors—tall, carved with old runes worn down by weather and age—don’t yield to him, not even a groan. He stands completely still, both palms pressed flat against the cold stone, his head bowed like he’s listening for something just beneath the surface.

The rest of us go quiet without being told. There’s a gravity to him when he’s like this—when the rage isn’t blinding but focused, tuned like a blade.

Then he speaks.

“Why the fuck would you let Silas do your makeup?”

His voice cuts across the stillness like a blade dipped in disbelief. He turns his head toward me, one brow raised, and that barely-there scowl tugging at the corner of his mouth like it’s fighting not to smirk.

I blink at him, then lift a shoulder in a shrug, feigning innocence. “Because he said he had to. Something about ‘goth-bitch realness’ or the aesthetic of morally ambiguous burglary.”

Riven blinks once. Slowly.

Silas, behind me, perks up like a damn feral cat. “See? She gets it.”

“She looks like a sad raccoon,”

Elias mutters, squinting. “A hot one, sure. But like, still very nocturnal and deeply troubled.”

“Thank you,”

I say sweetly. “That was exactly the look I was going for.”

Caspian hums from where he’s leaned against a twisted column, the remains of an old angel statue crumbling beside him. “I think it’s art. Chaos as expression. Rebellion by eyeliner. Very... Silas.”

“Don’t encourage him,”

Riven growls, fingers twitching against the door. But the scowl softens just a fraction as he glances back toward me.

“Should I be worried about the door?”

I ask, stepping forward. The chill coming off the chapel isn’t just temperature—it’s magic, ancient and awake. I can feel it trying to press against my skin, trying to taste me.

Riven grunts. “It’s not locked. It’s warded. Old spells. Layered. And pissed.”

“Like you,”

Elias offers, unhelpfully.

“Touch it, and it’ll snap your soul in half,”

Riven continues, ignoring him. “Or at least curse you with boils. Possibly worse.”

I glance down at my eyeliner. “I mean, I’ve already committed to the look. Might as well finish it off with a little hellfire.”

Riven’s jaw tics. “Cute.”

“I thought so.”

“Don’t touch the door, .”

“Fine.”

I take a measured step back and gesture grandly. “Lead the way, oh wrathful one.”

He doesn’t answer, but I catch the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth before he turns back to the door.

Ambrose, who’d been silently observing from the shadows like a damn gargoyle, finally speaks. “There’s a seam in the protection along the side window. If we can get the wards to flutter, even briefly, I can break the enchantment without triggering the defense.”

“Flutter,”

Silas says, whispering it like a dirty word. “Sounds so gentle. Like foreplay.”

“Do you ever not?”

I ask him, exasperated.

“Not what?”

he grins. “Flirt? Think about your mouth? Imagine Riven naked and angry?”

“I will burn you alive,”

Riven mutters.

Elias makes a strangled sound and mutters, “Honestly, same.”

“Everyone shut up,”

Ambrose snaps, already moving toward the side of the chapel. “If we’re going to do this, we do it now. Before the wards realize we’re more than shadows on the lawn.”

I follow, pulse steady, despite everything in my bones screaming this place isn’t just stone and memory anymore. The academy is watching us. And I’m not sure it’s glad to see us back.

Silas, for all his talk about stealth, cannot shut up. I swear the man is biologically incapable of silence. Even with Riven fully locked in, knuckles braced white against the stone as he reads the enchantments like braille in another language, Silas is behind me whispering nonsense at a frequency only other demons—or Elias—would bother responding to.

“I hope there’s zombies,”

Silas murmurs low, voice syrupy with anticipation. “Sexy ones. Half-dead but hot. Like, rotting just enough to be morally ambiguous.”

“Why would that ever be your fantasy?”

Elias hisses back, his expression twisted in equal parts horror and intrigue. “Do you need help? Like… professional help?”

“Don’t kink shame me in front of our queen,”

Silas replies, gesturing to me with a dramatic flourish that nearly elbows Elias in the ribs.

“Jesus,”

Elias mutters. “He’s worse when you let him do your makeup.”

“You weren’t complaining when I made you contour your abs last week,”

Silas shoots back, smug.

“That was for a mission,”

Elias snaps, eyes darting toward Riven’s back like he’s waiting to get smited. “And it worked, thank you very much.”

“Oh, it worked. Especially when you flexed and the powder puffed off like fairy dust.”

Riven growls—not a warning, just that sharp, guttural sound he makes when he’s almost finished casting something and knows we’re seconds from ruining it. I step forward instinctively, pressing a hand to Silas’ chest to shut him up. It works—for half a heartbeat.

“Babe,”

he whispers down to me, “you can’t just touch me like that and expect me to behave. That’s not how this works.”

I look up at him flatly. “I touched you to silence you.”

“Still counts.”

“Silas,”

Riven says, his voice suddenly sharp enough to splinter bone, “if you speak again, I will personally hex your balls off.”

There’s a collective inhale. Elias mimes zipping his lips. Silas presses both hands over his mouth, eyes wide and thrilled, like he’s just been gifted the greatest challenge of his life.

The silence that follows is heavy, not with dread—but with anticipation. My skin hums, my bond with Riven tugging taut as if responding to the magic curling beneath the chapel’s surface. The wards are pulsing now, slow and rhythmic, like they’re breathing.

Then Riven steps back.

“It’s open,”

he says. “But you better move fast.”

No one argues. Not when his voice sounds like that—like something wild has come unhinged inside him, and he’s only barely holding it back.

Ambrose is the first through the cracked chapel door, his coat flaring behind him like a shadow that obeys only him. Silas follows, unnaturally quiet for once, and Elias bumps his shoulder into mine as we slip in together.

Silas leans in, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “You look criminally good tonight, baby.”

“Silas—”

“I’m just saying, if we die in here, I want to go out knowing your eyeliner game was strong.”

Riven groans from up ahead, muttering something about murdering us all after we survive.

But me? I’m already in. Heart steady. Magic humming. Because whatever waits inside this chapel… it’s old, it’s hidden, and it’s about to learn I’m not here to knock.

I’m here to take.

It feels wrong, being back in these halls. Not dangerous. Not even haunted. Just... wrong. Like the place is holding its breath, waiting to be useful again. Waiting for something it won’t get.

The marble beneath our feet is too clean, too untouched. Like time skipped this wing entirely. Dust doesn’t gather here. Paint doesn’t peel. The torches flicker, obedient as ever, and the walls hum with the same low throb of restrained magic—but the soul is gone. Students. Chaos. Noise. Gone.

Even the shadows look bored.

I glance to my left, where Caspian walks a pace behind the others. He doesn’t realize it. He’s always trailing lately. Always there, but not quite in it. Shoulders hunched like the weight of silence is heavier than battle, and it probably is. His hands are jammed into his pockets, his usual swagger muted down to a shuffle.

He doesn’t look at me. Hasn’t looked at much in days.

This is the same corridor he once dragged me through with an infuriating smirk, narrating every painting with commentary that could’ve gotten us expelled. He taught me the underground tunnels, the ways to dodge Professors, where to find contraband chocolate cake in the kitchens after midnight.

He made this place feel like mine.

Now he barely makes a sound.

I slow my steps and let the others move ahead. Riven catches my movement, his eyes dark in the half-light, but he doesn’t stop me. Ambrose doesn’t even glance back—he’s too focused, too locked in on whatever secrets he thinks Blackwell kept from him.

But Caspian needs someone to notice him. And he’s too proud to ask for it.

I reach out and loop my arm through his, ignoring the way he stiffens at the touch. For one breath, he doesn’t move. Then he sighs, a sound that’s too exhausted for someone who used to thrive on being shameless.

“You’re being weird,”

he mutters, his voice low, rough.

“And you’re being quiet,”

I reply. “We’re both off-brand tonight.”

That earns me a small twitch of a smile—barely there, but enough.

“I used to know every creak in this place,”

he says softly. “Now it just feels… echoey.”

“It’s not the school that changed.”

I can feel the ache in him, not just through the bond, but through the way he holds his jaw too tight, the way his shoulders never fully relax, like his body’s stuck in a fight he can’t punch his way out of. He’s Lust, and right now, all he wants is numbness.

I tighten my hold on his arm just a bit. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

He finally looks at me then. There’s gratitude in it, but something else too. Grief, maybe. Shame, even. He doesn’t let it stay long. Caspian always covers it with something—humor, seduction, flippant charm. But this time, he just lets it be.

“I don’t know how to be this version of me,”

he says, voice barely above a whisper.

“Then let’s figure him out together,”

I answer. No softness, no pity. Just truth. Just us.

Ahead, the others vanish into the next hall, and the magic stirs again—Blackwell’s wards peeling back layer by layer as Riven decodes them. I don’t rush to follow.

Neither does Caspian.

Because maybe, just maybe, this time… he doesn't want to walk through the dark alone.