Page 2 of The Sin Binder's (The Seven Sins Academy #4)

There are six of him. All grinning with the same crooked smirk, daggers glinting in each hand like promises I never asked for. Shadows lick at the edges of their forms, too fluid to be natural, too sharp to be illusions—because they’re not. They're all real. Not copies. Not tricks. Just Silas, multiplied by something dark and volatile. He’s stolen a power, probably without meaning to, probably because someone else had it first and that alone made him want it. Classic Silas. Take first. Think never.

They circle me like vultures, slow and predatory, each of them bouncing slightly on their feet like they can barely contain themselves. And I know—I know—they’re not just here to fight. They're here to play. That’s what he always does. Even when it matters. Even when it’s life or death. Especially when it’s me.

One of them whistles low. Another winks.

“Looking good, Vael,”

the Silas to my left calls, flipping a dagger between his fingers with maddening ease. “Is that the infamous Lust pout, or are you just happy to see me?”

He’s flirting.

While we fight.

It’s infuriating.

The problem isn’t that he’s annoying—he is, unbearably so. The problem is that beneath the chaos, he’s brilliant. Fast. Lethal. And even though his mouth never stops moving, his daggers never miss. He doesn’t fight to win. He fights to unhinge you, to get under your skin until you're too distracted to block the blade.

I don’t want to fight him. Not because I think he’ll win. But because he’s my friend. My irritating, impossible, unpredictable friend. And Branwen knows that. She’s always known where to dig.

One of the Silas’ lunges first—too early, too obvious. He’s bait. I don’t fall for it. I flick my wrist and send the length of my whip slicing through the air. It catches him across the ribs, splitting illusion from reality. He hisses, stumbles back, but the others don’t react. They just laugh.

“C’mon, ,”

another one drawls from behind me. “Don’t tell me you’re holding back. You know what that does to me.”

I pivot on instinct, whip lashing in a sharp arc. He ducks, flips over a low stone, and lands in a crouch beside the original—at least, I think he’s the original. It’s impossible to tell now. They’re bleeding into each other, energy mixing, warping, cracking at the edges. He’s stolen something volatile this time. Time magic? Maybe shadows. Something dangerous enough that he’s barely hanging onto his form.

He moves too fast.

Not fluid like Riven. Not precise like Lucien.

Erratic.

Beautiful.

Disastrous.

And still—he grins like we’re playing tag in the courtyard. Like this is foreplay.

“You’re not even looking at me,”

he says, breathless with movement. “That hurts, Cas. Thought we had a thing.”

“You’re trying to stab me, Silas.”

“Flirting and stabbing. It’s called multitasking.”

He darts forward again, and this time he doesn’t fake it. One dagger slashes toward my thigh. I twist, snap my whip to intercept—and miss. Barely. He’s closer now. Too close. His hand grazes my chest and I feel it—that heat, that pull. Not his, but mine. My magic flares without permission. Lust, coiling like smoke between us. I feel the first edge of it—the want—rising, dangerous and sharp, and I shove it down.

Not on him.

Not like this.

But he felt it too. His breath catches, just for a second, before he laughs.

“Oh shit,”

he grins, backing off, eyes wide. “Did I just make you blush?”

“You’re not that charming.”

He shrugs. “Could be. I’m not saying I’m impressed, but I am feeling things.”

I strike again. Not out of anger—precision. The whip wraps around his wrist mid-spin and I yank, hard. He tumbles forward into my space, and for a second, he’s inches away. His breath ghosts over my cheek.

“Hi,”

he whispers.

I release him with a grunt, shoving him back.

He rolls to his feet with theatrical flair, brushing imaginary dust off his shoulder. “Rude.”

“You're fighting like you're stalling.”

He grins, but there’s something under it. A flicker of sharpness in his gaze. “Maybe I am.”

“Branwen watching?”

He shrugs. Doesn’t answer. Which tells me everything.

She is.

And he’s trying not to hurt me.

Just like I’m trying not to make him bleed.

We’re both trapped. Fighting not because we want to—but because the bond pulls me like a marionette. Except Silas? He fakes it. Hides the pain behind the jokes. Drowns the resentment in theatrics and flirtation. But I see it. I know it’s there. The way his jaw clenches too tight after every lunge. The way his hands shake, just a little, when he resets.

And I know what that means.

He’s burning through too many powers at once.

Too much envy. Too many stolen things that were never meant to fit inside him.

He’s falling apart.

And smiling while he does it.

He spins. Not just once. All versions of him—twirl in unison like they choreographed the move during a blackout drunk séance. Barrel rolls. Actual barrel rolls. Across the scorched ground, through smoke and scattered ash, each Silas commits to the bit like we’re in a combat ballet directed by a madman.

When he lands—graceful as a cat, blades raised like he stuck the damn landing at the Olympics—he shoots me a look so smug it should be illegal.

“Well?”

he calls out, winded but grinning. “Scale of one to badass, how cool did that look? Be honest.”

He’s not asking me.

Not really.

His eyes flick to the right—subtle, fast—but I know who he’s performing for.

Luna.

She stands too far to hear him clearly, but that never stopped Silas from trying. The clones mirror him, all facing the same direction now, all puffed up with pride and glittering mischief, and gods help me—

I smile.

It hurts. It hurts in a way I’m not ready for.

Like something deep in my chest has been frozen for too long and is finally cracking under heat it doesn’t know how to handle. My face pulls with it, this soft, unwilling expression I didn’t give permission for. A curl of amusement. A flicker of affection. Something ancient and sharp and unspeakably fond.

Because gods, I missed him.

I missed this.

His chaos. His irreverence. His inability to take anything seriously—even now, when the world’s unraveling and our hands are slick with magic and blood. I missed the way he moves like gravity is optional. The way he talks through pain, through exhaustion, through every rule we’ve ever been told not to break.

Even now—especially now—he performs.

For Luna.

And I can’t blame him.

She’s standing like a goddess in battlefield shadow, eyes locked to where we dance on the edges of violence, and he’s reaching for her without saying it. With every flip. Every wink. Every exaggerated flourish of those damned daggers. He’s begging her to look. Not with pity. With light. With that little smile she gives when she sees him being the version of himself no one else knows how to love.

He’s trying to prove he’s still him—under the madness, beneath the mimicry, buried in the envy that eats away at his magic like rot. He wants her to laugh. Or blush. Or yell at him to focus, even if it’s through clenched teeth. Because that would mean she sees him. Still.

I take a slow breath, resetting my stance, whip coiled in my hand, heat pulsing at my fingertips. I could strike now. I know which clone is real. He hums differently, off-key and wild. The others echo, but the one at the center sings. I could land a hit. End this part. Break the spell.

But I don’t.

Instead, I speak. Quiet, just loud enough for him to hear.

“You’ve still got it.”

His grin flickers. Not falters. Just shifts. Something behind his eyes goes soft.

For a moment, none of the others move. All six freeze mid-breath, like he wasn’t expecting that. Like no one’s told him in a long time.

“I know,”

he says after a beat, smirk lazy. “I mean, it’s a gift. Being this amazing. You should be honored I’m showing off in your general direction.”

I roll my eyes.

But I’m still smiling. Gods. He’ll be the death of me. And I won’t even mind.

The crack of the whip is automatic. Muscle memory, not intent. It wraps clean around Silas’s wrists, both arms drawn wide before he can blink, before I can blink. He doesn’t try to dodge—because he doesn’t need to. He just grins, head tilted, wrists bound and body loose like it’s all just a game he’s decided to win by not playing.

“You always were into dramatic entrances,”

he drawls, the words too light, too flippant, but I hear the strain beneath them. His voice is tighter than usual. Guarded. Watching me.

He should be the one fighting. That’s how this used to work. Silas causes chaos, and I clean it up. That was the rhythm, the structure. But now? Now he’s still the storm, still the wildcard with too much power surging in veins that were never meant to hold it—but he’s also her shield. Her wall. He’s planted himself between Luna and the rest of us like his body alone could hold back fate.

And I’m the one trying to take him down.

Branwen’s command slithers in the hollow between my ribs, laced into the marrow of my bones like it belongs there. I hate it. I loathe the way she makes me move, the way she pulls my power like it’s hers to wield, forcing my hands to lift, my magic to rise. She wants a show, and I’m her perfect instrument. Lust and spectacle. Pleasure weaponized. Pain disguised as seduction.

I didn’t come here to hurt Silas. I didn’t come here to hurt any of them.

But I can’t not move.

My fingers twitch. The whip strains, magic curling down the leather like venom.

And still—Silas grins.

“I missed you, you know,”

he says, as if I didn’t just try to restrain him, as if we’re standing at the edge of the sea instead of the edge of war. “You’re gone five minutes and I’ve already claimed your room. Hope that’s cool.”

I blink once. “You what?”

“I sleep there now. Kinda wrecked your desk. Also, I think your mirror’s cursed? It started talking. Might’ve been me, though. Hard to say. Another thing, I may have spilled some kind of glowing sludge on your books. Unclear if it’s blood or not.”

He’s saying all of this like I didn’t just try to bind him. Like this fight isn’t real. Like I’m not the one who might actually go too far. Like the weight of my power isn’t currently coiled between us like a serpent waiting to strike.

It should annoy me.

It should push me past this sick knot of hesitation Branwen’s strung through me like a leash.

But all it does is make my chest ache.

Because I remember that version of him. The boy who slept upside down on a library bench. Who once set a professor’s shoes on fire and then tried to blame it on a magical squirrel.

And now he’s standing between me and Luna, arms wide, power leaking off him like he doesn’t care if it kills him, and he’s still trying to make me feel better.

I yank the whip. It tightens. Not out of anger—because I can’t stop myself.

His smile falters, just barely. The corners tug downward for half a second, and I catch a glimpse of what’s underneath. Not weakness. Not fear.

Resolve.

“I’m not moving,”

he says. And his voice is quieter now. Lower. “If you’re going to come for her, you’re going through me.”

“I’m not trying to,”

I grind out.

“I know.”

He doesn't pull against the whip. Doesn’t struggle. Just stands there, wrists bound, blades sheathed, eyes locked on me like he knows exactly what I’m carrying—and he’s not going to make me carry it alone.

“Tell Branwen to go to hell,”

he says. “Tell her no.”

I laugh, bitter and broken at the edges. “It’s not that simple.”

“It never is,”

he replies. “Doesn’t mean you stop trying.”

The magic pulses again—sharp this time. I feel the urge ripple through me, the need to act. To touch. To command. Lust, weaponized in my bloodstream, aching for release.

But he holds my gaze. He just waits. Still my friend. Even now.

The pain doesn’t start with fire. It begins with something smaller—quieter. A tremor behind my sternum. A pulse too deep to name. At first, it feels like breathlessness, like I’ve run too hard for too long. Then it twists. Sharp. Invasive. The ache sharpens into something brutal as it rips upward through my chest, clawing into the hollow behind my ribs like she’s reaching for something she already owns.

Branwen.

Her magic doesn’t arrive with spectacle. It doesn’t crackle or burn. It takes. Cold and slow and precise. Her hooks dig in not with rage, but with certainty. The knowledge that she has every right to do this. That I am hers. That resistance is not defiance—it’s failure. I try to move, to brace against it, but my body falters like a puppet mid-step. My limbs belong to me, but they don’t listen. Not anymore. Not with her threading herself through every nerve like she’s stitching my soul back together in the shape she prefers.

And she’s furious.

Furious that I’m standing. That I haven’t struck. That I haven’t done what I was made to do—fill Luna. Not just with power. With obsession. With lust so thick it drowns her. That’s what Branwen wants. She doesn’t want blood. She wants devotion corrupted. She wants to turn what I am into something Luna will beg to be ruined by. And when I don’t move—when I choose stillness—Branwen punishes me for it.

The scream comes not through sound, but through thought. Through the deepest, most vulnerable places of me—places I didn’t think she could reach. Her voice doesn’t echo. It scrapes. It grates against my skull until it feels like my brain is swelling, until I can barely tell where my own thoughts end and hers begin.

“You are mine.”

“She was made for you to destroy.”

“Take her. Or I will take you.”

My knees hit the ground hard, stone and ash biting into my skin through the ruined fabric of my trousers. The movement isn’t chosen—it’s yanked from me, a sharp tug through the spine that drops me like a marionette whose strings have been jerked, not cut. My jaw clenches. I grind my teeth against the raw ache spreading down my throat, and I feel it—my magic unraveling, sliding through me like smoke laced with poison.

The hunger blooms.

Not for her. For power. For obedience. For the release of giving in.

Lust, rising like a wave. Curling toward Luna across the field, searching for her, aching for her. It snakes out of me without permission, a breathless drag of heat that licks at the edges of the bond we’ve only brushed—and the moment it touches hers, even just barely, the pain spikes.

Not hers.

Mine.

My magic backlashes. The bond recoils. My breath catches hard enough to snap, like I’ve been punched from the inside out. Because it’s not just a bond. It’s us. Me and her. Bound not by fate, but by something ancient and volatile and unfinished. My power doesn't dominate it—it bends beneath it. I am not the master here. Not with her. Never with her.

And Branwen knows it.

That’s why she’s screaming.

Her fury claws through my ribcage, dragging at every inch of me that isn’t broken enough for her liking. She wants to puppet me. To put on a show. Make me rise from the ash and devour Luna like it’s seduction, not execution. She wants me to be the warning. The cautionary tale. The living proof that no matter what we are, we belong to her in the end.

My fingers dig into the ground. Not for balance—for sanity. The soil is hot beneath my skin, laced with old blood, with the fragments of battle and betrayal. The Hollow has always felt sentient, but now it feels witnessed. As if it’s watching, weighing whether I’ll bend or shatter.

Behind the pounding in my head, I hear footsteps.

Silas.

Not charging. Not attacking. Just standing. Placing himself between me and her again, blades sheathed, arms loose at his sides, but shoulders squared like he’d take the blow if I launched one.

He doesn’t mock me this time. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t grin.

He looks at me like he knows exactly what’s happening. And worse—he hates it.

“I’m not letting you near her,” he says.

I try to speak. To warn him. To tell him I’m not choosing this—but the words catch. Branwen won’t let them free. She wants me to perform. Wants me to look like I’m hunting. Wants Luna to believe I want her undone.

My whip rises on its own.

The magic pulses down its length like a live nerve, desperate to be wielded, to carve desire into something cruel. My grip shakes. I don’t know how much longer I can resist. I feel the leash tightening around my throat, the last threads of my will unraveling.

Silas doesn’t move.

He stares me down with something closer to sorrow than challenge.

“I know you’re in there, ,”

he says quietly. “And I know you don’t want this.”

And gods help me—

He’s right.

But Branwen is screaming.

Ambrose

’s whips crack like thunder through the battlefield, arcs of silver slicing through ash and shadow, and the only thing louder than the sound is the silence that follows—when one of Silas’s clones vanishes with a hiss of displaced air and scorched magic.

Then another.

Then another.

He’s not holding back.

Blank eyes. Perfect form. No hesitation. No conscience left to interfere with the elegance of destruction. It’s mechanical—graceful, even—but there’s nothing beautiful about it. Not when he’s moving like he’s already decided who’s disposable.

And today, that’s Luna.

Silas scrambles to remake the clones faster than can tear them apart, but he’s faltering. Too much mimicry. Too much chaos fed into his blood. I can see the edges of his magic fraying, flickering where it used to snap. His stance is still cocky, but it’s cracked now—panicked beneath the smirk. He’s defending her like a mad dog and pretending it’s still a joke.

It isn’t.

Because isn’t here to play.

The last time I saw him like this, I woke up on the wrong side of a pillar gate with blood on my shirt and two broken ribs. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t ask. He didn’t even warn me. Just wrapped me in those damn whips and dragged me out of the house like a trophy on a leash. I didn’t fight him that hard—not then. Because it was just me. I could take it. And I wasn’t interested in bleeding for pride.

But today?

Today he’s going after her.

And that’s something I can’t allow. I burn the idea of possession into others—I don’t suffer it myself. But she’s mine. For now.

My mouth. My hands. My bed.

My problem.

And —blank-eyed and thrumming with Branwen’s leash—has decided to make her his next conquest, not with seduction, but obliteration.

Unacceptable.

I step forward, slow, deliberate, my boots crushing cinders into the Hollow’s wounded skin. The chaos around me moves like it knows not to touch me. Whips fly past. Clones vanish and scream and reappear. But I am a still point in all of it, watching carve through magic like it offends him.

He doesn’t see me yet. Too focused. Too far gone. His lips are parted, not with breath, but with something darker—purpose. Each movement is too clean to be random. He’s not lashing out. He’s targeting. Every strike lands just close enough to keep Silas from shielding Luna. Herding. Boxing in. Preparing to strike where it’ll hurt the most.

I hate what Branwen’s done to him.

Not because it’s cruel. I’m fluent in cruelty. But because it’s so inefficient. was never meant to be a weapon. He’s a lure. A ruin in silk. He manipulates want, not war. What she’s doing to him is like setting fire to a violin. It might sound impressive while it burns, but you’ve still lost the instrument.

My gaze flicks to Luna.

She’s tense—centered in her stance, magic pulsing beneath her skin. Ready, but uncertain. Not afraid. She doesn’t do afraid. But she’s watching like she hasn’t decided yet whether to fight him or save him.

That’s the problem with her.

She feels too much.

And ’s counting on it.

I step between them before he can strike again, my hand raised—not to attack, but to own. The moment my fingers lift, the air shifts. I let the threads of my magic uncoil—gold-tinged, warm in the way that always deceives, always draws. Possession unfurls like a scent, invisible but undeniable. And feels it.

He halts mid-movement.

Just a flicker. Just enough to confirm it’s still him in there—somewhere.

I don’t need to say a word.

My power hums with the promise: stand down, or I will take what’s left of you.

He turns his head slowly, eyes blank but body coiled with tension. Not fear. Not confusion. Just instinct. The kind that remembers who I am.

And what I can do.

He’s stronger than he was last time. But I’m not here to spar. I’m not here to play by Branwen’s rules or prove a point.

I’m here to keep Luna alive. Because for all my detachment, for all the ways I’ve told myself she’s just a passing distraction—I don’t tolerate someone else trying to end what I’m not done enjoying.

’s jaw twitches.

And I know he’s about to make a choice.

He charges me.

Not with the elegance I’m used to. Not like the creature of calculated seduction who moves through rooms like he owns every heartbeat in them. This version of is all grit and gritless pain—his body forced forward by a command he didn’t write, his grace curdled by something uglier than magic. And I see it. In the way his brow tightens. The way his foot falters mid-stride. The hesitation buried in his bones like a blade too deep to pull free. It costs him something to lunge at me.

It costs me something to meet him.

The collision is a rupture. Stone and dust scatter around us, a blast of Hollow grit as my body slams into his, and we both go down in a tangle of limbs and whiplash fury. My boots skid, catching loose gravel and fractured rune stones beneath. His whip grazes past my shoulder, tearing through the air like a second spine snapping into motion. I twist into him before he can get his footing—before he can remember what he’s supposed to be doing—and drive us both into the dirt, my hand at his collar, my knee braced against his ribs.

And gods, he fights like it hurts.

Not the pain of impact, but the pain of choice. Of betrayal. His muscles jerk beneath me, not out of aggression but desperation—like he’s trying to push me away and pull me in at once. His eyes meet mine for half a breath, the whites blown wide with a sheen of panic, and I see it there.

Not rage.

Not vengeance.

Regret.

He mutters something under his breath—quiet, fractured, lost beneath the crush of dust and power still vibrating through the ground. But I hear it. I feel it. The syllables echo through the fragile remnants of silence between us.

“I’m sorry.”

It hits harder than his charge.

Because Vael doesn’t say sorry. Not for cutting deep. Not for leaving bruises. Certainly not for obeying orders.

But this?

This wasn’t his choice.

I feel the threads of my power strain at the edges of my limbs, humming with anticipation, waiting for my decision. I could possess him now. Strip Branwen’s influence away, if only for a moment. Bind him to my will and force his stillness. But doing so would take more than I’m willing to give right now. I already feel the weight of too many choices pressing against my skin—each claim I’ve made tugging at the seams of what’s left of me.

He writhes under me again, not to break free but to fall differently—like he’s trying to collapse into the earth rather than into me. My grip tightens, forcing him to look at me again. He breathes hard through his nose, sweat and grit smeared across his jaw.

“You’re not going to make me kill you for her,”

I murmur, just low enough for him to hear. “Not like this. Not when I haven’t finished ruining you yet.”

His laugh is broken. Dry. Cracked.

’s nose is bleeding.

Not from me—not from any hit I landed—but from her. From the pressure building behind his eyes like his body is trying to reject what’s been stuffed into it. A command too tight to breathe around. A leash pulled taut by a woman who doesn’t understand the limits of flesh or soul. Branwen doesn’t care how far she stretches her toys—only how loud they snap when they finally break.

His breath saws out in short bursts as he tosses me off him, not with elegance but with desperation, like his own body is becoming something foreign. The way he moves isn't violent. It's wrong. Jerky. Misaligned. His hands tremble like he's trying to hold them still with his own fury, but they're still obeying her. Still inching toward another strike neither of us wants to land.

I hit the ground hard, shoulder grinding into grit and cracked stone. The Hollow beneath us breathes like a living thing—wounded, ancient, always listening. My back arches as I roll to my feet, slow, careful, not because I’m weak, but because I know better than to meet madness with recklessness. I know what can do when he’s like this. I’ve felt it. And even though I’m the one who always walks away, I never forget the price.

He stands across from me now, chest heaving, lips parted around a breath he can’t seem to catch. The blood is still leaking from his nose in thin, dark lines. It doesn’t stop him, but it tells me everything. That he’s losing. That Branwen’s in his head, pushing deeper, wearing him like armor and calling it love. He was never meant to serve. Not her. Not anyone.

We were kings in our own right.

And now we’re fighting in the dirt like dogs.

Because one woman can’t stand the idea of not holding the reins.

I’ve known him longer than anyone. I’ve seen him seduce rooms into silence, manipulate kings into giving him their crowns and act like he was doing them a favor. But this—being forced to strike out against the few people he hasn’t hollowed for pleasure—it’s unmaking him. And I’m the only one left standing between what’s left of him and total ruin.

He lunges again, too fast to fully block, and I let his shoulder slam into my ribs. We crash into another heap, more gravel biting into my palms, his weight crushing the air from my lungs as he pins me down. Not to hurt me. To stop himself.

He braces a hand beside my head, blood dripping from his nose onto the stone between us. His other hand fists in the collar of my shirt, knuckles trembling like he’s holding back something that could level everything around us.

“I don’t want to do this,”

he chokes out. The words are low. Fractured. Carved from pain he’d never willingly show anyone but me.

“I know,”

I say, voice calm even as my ribs scream in protest.

Something inside him cracks. A muscle twitch he didn’t mean to show. He shudders once—just once—and then shoves off me like I’ve burned him. He doesn’t stumble, doesn’t speak. Just turns his back and clutches his sides like he's trying to hold himself together with the same hands that used to build pleasure like art.

I sit up slowly, brushing blood from my mouth with the back of my hand.

We’re best friends.

We always have been.

But now we’re weapons in a war that was never ours.

And neither of us will leave this battlefield whole.

He lunges at her. Not like a man. Like something broken. A hollowed-out body draped in the memory of Vael, wearing his skin like armor but moving with none of the purpose that made him dangerous. This isn’t seduction turned sharp. This isn’t a weapon polished to gleam. It’s the echo of a command he can’t resist, dragging him toward Luna with a growl so defeated it makes my chest tighten.

And Luna—godsdamn Luna—she doesn’t run.

She just watches him come for her like she’s already decided he won’t do it. Like belief is enough to stop a blade. Like her stubborn refusal to see the worst in us is anything but a fucking liability.

I see the moment too late. The angle of his stance. The flicker of something too fast to track. And I know. I know exactly what’s about to happen because I’ve seen it in other rooms, other lives. The choice made before it even reaches the surface.

So I move. I move like I’ve already accepted what it’s going to cost me.

My body slams between them as the blade flashes, a slip of obsidian barely visible until it is. Until it’s already in me.

The pain is sharp, quick, personal.

It slips between my ribs like it belongs there, like it was made for me. A kiss from ’s better judgment too late to matter. I hear him gasp as the impact registers, like he didn’t mean it—like Branwen’s magic might’ve guided the hand, but he still feels the weight of the wound.

I don’t look at him.

I look at her.

And what I see is nothing. No panic. No scream. No flinch. Just Luna, standing there with her goddamn jaw tight and her eyes wide and her power just beneath her skin like it’s waiting for me to get out of the fucking way.

“Get the fuck back,”

I snap, the words raw, more bark than speech. My breath hitches around the blade, and I feel the warmth of blood sliding down my side, slicking through fabric like a secret spilling out of me.

She doesn’t move. Because in her head, ’s still one of us. Still safe. Still hers.

Fucking stupid girl.

I press my hand against the wound as I stagger sideways, forcing myself between them again, even though I know he’s stopped now—shaking, shocked, horrified at what he’s done. But that doesn’t mean he won’t try again. Not with her standing there like she’s untouchable. Like belief in fate is stronger than magic meant to break her.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,”

I grit out, still not looking at . Not yet. Not until I know she’s listening.

“You’re bleeding,”

she whispers.

I spit blood on the ground at her feet. “You’re welcome.”

And still, she doesn’t move.

Because that’s what she does, isn’t it? Stays. Waits. Believes.

And me?

I’m the fool who takes a blade in the ribs for a girl who can’t be owned—because for one stupid fucking second, I didn’t want to watch her fall.

Her hands are on me before I can stop her.

Small, sure palms pressing into the wound. There’s no hesitation. No flinch. Just pressure—sharp, deliberate, intimate. The kind that says she’s done this before, bled for people who didn’t deserve it, patched wounds while the world burned down around her feet.

“Don’t,”

I growl, but it comes out too quiet, too late. Her fingers are already slick with my blood.

“It’s just a flesh wound,”

she says, like that means anything. Like the blade sliding between my ribs wasn’t meant for her heart. “But it’s still bleeding.”

“I’m aware.”

Her eyes flick up to mine. There’s regret in her gaze, threaded through the lines of her mouth like she can’t decide whether to apologize or argue with me again.

“I’m sorry,”

she says, soft. Not for the blood. Not for the knife. “For not moving.”

I hiss as she presses harder into the wound, biting down on a curse. Her touch is brutal, but her voice is gentle, like she thinks the contrast makes it okay. “I didn’t want this to happen,”

she whispers, eyes scanning my face like I’m supposed to believe that’s enough. “I thought… I thought he wouldn’t—”

I laugh. Dry. Bitter. I push her back.

Not hard. Just enough to make her stumble, enough to make sure she feels the heat behind it. Her hands fall from my side, red and trembling, and the wound starts bleeding again—but I don’t care.

“You thought?”

I spit. “You thought what, exactly? That he’d remember who he is? That the man with knives for fingers and a leash around his spine would come charging at you out of love?”

She opens her mouth. Closes it. She doesn’t look at me.

Good.

Because I can’t take her looking at me right now.

“He’s not done,”

I snap, rising to my feet. The wound screams, but I don’t let it slow me. “And if you think that moment of hesitation saved you, you’re dumber than I thought.”

I feel it before I see it.

.

His magic returning like a wave crashing against the shore—faster now. Meaner. The air changes, the Hollow pulling tighter around us as his energy hones in, singular and hungry. Lust warped into something unrecognizable. He’s coming back.

I step in front of Luna again, dragging her behind me without ceremony.

“You want to die for your ideals, fine,”

I mutter. “But you’re not dying while I’m still bleeding for you.”