Page 21 of The Sin Binder's (The Seven Sins Academy #4)

The door slams like thunder splitting the hall, and I don’t even flinch. I hear it—the weight in the sound, the fury tucked behind it like a blade barely sheathed. Ambrose doesn’t slam doors. He doesn’t waste movement, doesn’t give away how close he is to shattering.

So when he does?

It’s bad.

I’m halfway down the hall before I realize I’ve already moved. My hoodie’s half-zipped, one sleeve shoved up past my elbow, and I should care more about how absolutely fucked we all are, but all I can think is—I’ve seen that look on his face before.

On mine. It’s the look of a man who’s halfway buried and hasn’t figured out yet that he can’t claw his way out.

By the time I get to the garage, he’s standing by the workbench like he’s trying to level the whole goddamn room with his spine alone. Arms braced on the counter, head dipped forward, shoulders tight as a noose.

The garage is mostly empty. The low flicker of a warded glowlamp overhead, casting cold light on cracked concrete and forgotten weapons. One of Riven’s blades rests on the far wall, glinting like it knows how this conversation ends.

I lean against the doorframe like I’m not here to drag him out of whatever spiral he’s diving into.

“Tough night, Dalmar?”

My voice cuts through the stillness, too loud on purpose.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even look up. I push off the frame and cross the space, slow and deliberate, letting my footsteps echo sharp against the concrete. He doesn’t react, not until I stop beside him, close enough to see the tension in his jaw, the storm barely stitched together beneath his skin.

“You gonna sulk forever, or can we skip to the part where you admit you’re pissed because you care?”

That earns me a look. Sharp. Dangerous. All the things Ambrose thinks keeps people out, when really—it’s just another invitation.

His mouth twists, not quite a smile, not quite a snarl. “I don’t need a lecture from you, Veyd.”

I grin, wide and reckless. “You’re getting one anyway.”

I lean my hip against the bench, turning to face him fully, arms crossed like I’m ready to start something I won’t finish.

“You think you’re the only one who didn’t want this?”

I gesture vaguely at the space between us, the house, the Academy, the mess we’ve crawled out of night after night. “Newsflash, Ambrose. None of us wanted it. We didn’t want to be bound. We didn’t want to care. And then Luna walked in and ruined everything.”

He laughs, low and bitter, a sound like gravel under boots. “She didn’t ruin me.”

“You’re standing here in an empty garage like you’re trying to remember how to breathe. She ruined you.”

He drags a hand through his hair, fingers curling into the back of his neck like he could hold himself together with nothing but pressure.

“You’re pissed,”

I continue, voice quieter now, cutting sharp and clean. “Because it wasn’t supposed to happen to you.”

He doesn’t deny it.

I watch him for a second longer, then push away from the bench, closing the space until I’m right in front of him, close enough he can’t look anywhere else but at me.

“I was you once, you know,”

I murmur, voice soft like a knife slipping between ribs. “I spent centuries refusing to be bound. Refusing to let anyone close enough to matter. Then Luna showed up, and I fought it, and I lost.”

I shrug, careless and sharp. “Best thing I ever did.”

His gaze flicks to mine, something jagged and quiet lurking in it.

“She’s not a prison,”

I say, softer now. “She’s the fucking key.”

Ambrose’s throat works, like he wants to argue, wants to spit something cruel, but the words never come.

He just breathes. Tight. Shallow. Like he hasn’t figured out how to survive this yet.

I lean back, giving him a little space, but not enough to let him run.

“You don’t have to want it,”

I say. “But you’re bound now. And the sooner you stop fighting her, the sooner you’ll figure out you were never losing.”

Ambrose is still pretending he can breathe without choking on it.

I watch him—the way his jaw flexes, the faint tremor at the corner of his mouth like he’s holding his teeth together just to keep from cracking down the middle. He’s braced against the workbench like it’ll hold him upright when we both know it won’t.

He’s bound now. And the only thing holding him together is the lie he keeps whispering to himself.

I sigh like this is exhausting—which, honestly, it is—and dig into the pocket of my hoodie, fingers brushing lint, a crumpled receipt, and finally, the joint I’ve been saving for when shit really hit the fan.

This qualifies.

There’s a little fuzz stuck to the end, but it’s mostly intact. I fish it out, roll it between my fingers, and glance sideways at him.

“You know how this works, right?”

My voice cuts through the space, sharper now, the smirk gone. “You can’t force a bond.”

Ambrose doesn’t look at me, but his jaw tightens just enough to tell me he’s listening.

“The intent matters,”

I say, voice low, deliberate. “The will of the Sin matters. You had to want it.”

I wait.

He doesn’t argue, doesn’t snap back with one of those cold little quips he throws out when he wants everyone to think he’s unaffected. He just breathes, slow and shallow, like the words are a blade pressed under his ribs.

I lean my hip against the workbench beside him, holding out the joint between two fingers, casual as hell. “So tell me, Ambrose. When exactly did you decide to stop lying to yourself?”

He finally looks at me then—sharp, cutting, like he wants to take my head off for saying it out loud.

I raise a brow, holding his gaze. “You had to want her. For this to happen.”

He doesn’t move. I press the joint into his palm anyway, my fingers brushing his just long enough to make sure he knows I’m not letting him off the hook.

“You wanted her,”

I murmur, voice quieter now, dark and vicious like a dare. “You wanted her enough to bind.”

Ambrose stares at me like I’ve said something obscene, like I’ve gutted him in the middle of the fucking garage.

I lean back, folding my arms. “You’re not the one above this, Ambrose. You never were. You just wanted to be.”

His fingers curl around the joint, slow and deliberate.

And when he finally speaks, his voice is low and quiet, but sharp enough to bleed. “Doesn’t mean I’ll survive it.”

I grin, wicked and cruel. “None of us are surviving her.”

A sound behind us—footsteps, too heavy to be anyone but Elias stomping his way down here like he owns the damn place. Probably heard the crash, probably heard everything.

And the fallout’s about to get a hell of a lot messier.

Elias might as well be a fucking joint himself—the way he slinks into the garage, all lazy limbs and cocky grin, like he wandered in here by accident and not because he’s been eavesdropping outside the entire time.

His hands are shoved in his pockets, shoulders slouched like he’s never had a serious thought in his life. But his eyes—the sharp, dark ones he pretends aren’t always watching—flick to the joint still burning faintly between Ambrose’s fingers.

They widen, comically. Like we’re committing a crime and he’s stumbled into the middle of it.

“Is that—”

Elias glances around the garage like we’re about to get raided, voice dropping conspiratorial and ridiculous. “You’re smoking without me? Rude.”

I groan, dragging a hand over my face because, of course, this is how he enters the scene. “You gonna stand there like a narc or sit down and be cool?”

Ambrose doesn’t even look at him, still pinned taut as a blade beside the bench, like he’s one wrong breath away from imploding.

Elias ignores him entirely, eyes still locked on me, grinning like an idiot. “You know I don’t do peer pressure, but also… I’m very susceptible to it.”

He’s already moving before I can answer, flopping down onto one of the cracked leather chairs near the wall, legs spread too wide, shoulders loose like he doesn’t care about a damn thing in this world.

I toss him the joint, and he catches it easily, brings it to his lips like we didn’t almost burn the world down tonight. He takes one long, slow drag, holds it, then exhales like he’s solving a math problem.

“Okay,”

he says, voice light but twitching around the edges. “So we’re all just pretending Luna’s covered in our tattoos now, and that’s normal? That’s what we’re doing?”

Ambrose’s jaw locks so hard I hear the crack.

I lean back against the bench, grinning despite myself. “No one’s pretending, Eli. It’s real.”

Elias’ mouth twists around another inhale. “Well, fuck me.”

He blows out the smoke, letting it curl lazily toward the ceiling, then flicks his gaze to Ambrose. “You really did it, huh?”

His voice is quieter now, teasing but soft underneath. “The fifth Sin. Bound to the girl who was never supposed to exist.”

Ambrose doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even blink. He just stands there, every inch of him wound tight, like if he acknowledges it, it’ll become something more than the ink on her skin.

Elias looks at me next, eyebrow arched, all snark and sharpness. “That’s gotta be some kind of record, right? No girl’s ever gotten past five.”

I nod, slow and deliberate. The weight of it settles heavy between us, even through the haze of smoke, the taste of ash and magic clinging to the back of my throat.

This is what none of them will say, but we all know.

She’s the endgame.

No one survives five Sins bound to them.

No one.

Elias drags a hand through his hair, slouching deeper into the chair like he can outrun the weight pressing in. “So, what now?”

he asks, voice quieter, lazier, but the sharp glint in his eyes doesn’t fade. “We just… sit here and get high about the fact that we’re all completely and irrevocably fucked?”

I grin, sharp and wicked. “Sounds about right.”

He snorts, passing the joint back to me. “At least she looks good branded with us.”

Ambrose’s gaze flicks up at that—just for a second. Quick, sharp, dangerous. And then he looks away again, like he didn’t just want to bite the words out of Elias’ mouth.

The joint’s burning low between my fingers, the edges fraying sweet and sharp when I hear the footsteps—heavy, clipped, one a little too quiet, one way too precise.

Riven and Caspian. Because nothing says family bonding like getting high in a grimy garage while the world’s probably ending upstairs.

They come in like two sides of a blade. Riven all carved edges and death-glare, Caspian dragging like a ghost behind him, hoodie half-zipped, eyes shadowed like he’s been staring into the abyss and the abyss handed him a drink and told him to go fuck himself.

Caspian tosses a six-pack onto the workbench like an offering. “Seriously? You’re getting high without us.”

Riven follows, drops two bottles on the counter without even looking at us. “Typical.”

I grab one, pop the cap against the edge of the table like a pro, grinning at them over the rim. “What can I say? The fifth Sin binds, the boys get blazed.”

Elias, already half-melted into the busted leather chair like he’s been here for years, raises a hand lazily. “And no one even invited me to the intervention.”

Caspian grabs a beer, cracks it open like it’s the only thing holding him together. Riven leans against the far wall, arms crossed, gaze cutting through the haze like he’s already three steps ahead of this conversation.

Ambrose says nothing. Still holding the joint like it’s a lit fuse.

I take another swig, licking the foam from my lips. “So. She’s at five now.”

Riven doesn’t react, because of course he doesn’t. “A handful ever got that far.”

Caspian lifts his beer to his lips without looking at any of us. “And none of them lasted long after.”

The weight of it’s there, hanging sharp between us, but I blow a lazy stream of smoke toward the ceiling anyway. “Yeah, but they weren’t our Luna.”

Elias huffs beside me, slouching deeper into the chair, legs splayed like he owns the place. “She’s already outliving the last five. That counts for something.”

“Counts for her being batshit enough to take all of us on,”

I mutter, smirking into my bottle.

Riven doesn’t laugh. He’s still watching Ambrose like he’s waiting for him to unravel. “Two left.”

“Orin and Lucien,”

Elias says, rolling the names around his mouth like they’re bad jokes.

I tip my head back, grin wicked. “And then she’ll have the whole damn set. Collect all seven, win a trip to hell.”

Caspian’s mouth twists around a bitter smile. “If she survives.”

That earns him a sharp look from Riven, but I wave it off, exhaling another lazy breath of smoke.

“She’ll survive,”

I say. “Because she’s not like them.”

And because none of us will let her go down.

But I don’t say that part. Too serious. Too much.

Elias leans forward, snatching the joint from Ambrose’s fingers like he’s saving his own life. “You know what’s wild?”

He takes a drag, eyes flicking up, snark sharp and stupid. “I always figured if she got to five, it’d be me she regretted.”

I bark out a laugh. “Oh no, darling. You’re always the regret. Ambrose just sealed the deal.”

I tap the neck of the beer bottle against my thigh, watching the smoke curl lazy across the garage ceiling while the others drink and pretend they aren’t two seconds from unraveling.

Then I say it, because of course I do. I can’t help myself. Voice loose, grin sharp enough to slice.

“So,”

I ask casually, like we’re talking about the weather and not the fact our Sin Binder is now a breathing spell stitched together by ink and blood and all of us. “How’d they look?”

That gets a reaction.

Riven’s gaze cuts to me, sharp as a knife but unreadable. Caspian barely glances up, his fingers white-knuckling the bottle like the weight of everything’s still sinking into his bones. Elias smirks around the joint, slumped so far in the chair he might actually dissolve.

Ambrose snorts. It’s not a sound anyone who doesn’t know him would catch. Barely audible. But it’s there—a crack in the ice. A sound like he’s still trying to remind himself he’s above this, when he’s already drowning.

I lean back against the workbench, grinning wide and vicious. “C’mon, Ambrose. You were up close and personal. Don’t hold out on me.”

He drags his gaze to mine, sharp and flat and dangerous. “You want me to describe her tits, Veyd?”

Elias chokes on a laugh, half-spitting smoke across the room. “Gods, I hate it here.”

I throw my head back, laughing hard. “I mean, not opposed.”

I lean forward, dropping my elbows on my knees, grin lazy and wicked. “Where’s mine?”

I ask, voice dipping softer now, something heavier laced beneath the words. “You saw ’em. Where’s my mark on her?”

Ambrose doesn’t answer right away. Just lifts the bottle to his lips, eyes dragging over me like he’s deciding whether or not I deserve the answer.

“She’s covered,”

he says finally, voice smooth and brutal. “Ribs. Hips. Sternum.”

His mouth twists. Not quite a smile.

“And yeah, Veyd. Yours is there.”

I feel it, low and electric, something dark curling under my ribs.

Elias hums lazily, head tipping back against the chair. “Yours is practically scribbled across her like a bad decision.”

“Like a love letter written in Sharpie,”

I shoot back, grinning.

He snorts. “Like a drunk tattoo on spring break.”

Riven rolls his eyes and mutters something under his breath in Old Tongue that probably translates to you’re all idiots.

Ambrose doesn’t look at any of us. His eyes are fixed on the beer bottle, on the edge of something sharp.

“She’s carrying all of us now,”

he says quietly, almost to himself.

I glance at him sideways, letting my smile soften—not enough for anyone but him to notice.

“She can handle it,”

I murmur. “She’s ours.”

Outside, the Hollow stirs again, magic crawling restless across the wards, a reminder that nothing in this house is normal. That nothing we are is safe.