Page 23 of The Sin Binder's (The Seven Sins Academy #4)

Luna’s weight is stretched across my chest like gravity itself decided to anchor me here. Her hair’s a mess against my throat, one leg tangled lazily over mine, her breathing slow and heavy like she’s already halfway to sleep. I’m still buzzed, the edges of the joint from earlier humming faintly in my veins, softening everything I should be overthinking.

And I should be overthinking.

Because everything’s unraveling around us—the binding, the marks on her skin, Ambrose’s implosion, Caspian spiraling, the entire damn prophecy breathing down our necks like a blade. But right now, with her sprawled on me like this, her heartbeat slowing under my fingertips, none of that matters.

My fingers drag lazy circles over her bare shoulder, tracing the slope of it like I’m sketching something permanent. I let my magic bleed out with each pass, a slow, steady drip of Sloth slipping between us—enough to make her heavy-limbed and soft, her body relaxing further against mine like she’s melting.

It’s selfish.

But gods, I don’t care.

For once, I want her like this—wrecked and bound and ruined, but safe. Soft enough to forget the weight of the world for a second.

Her breath ghosts warm against my collarbone when she speaks, her voice small and blunt like it slips past her defenses without permission.

“I don’t want to die.”

My hand stills, the lazy circle breaking apart like glass.

I keep my face neutral, my heartbeat even, but the words land sharp in my chest, slicing through the smoke and liquor and magic. The fifth binding. The way no Binder has ever made it past it. The prophecy clawing at her throat.

I swallow, dragging my hand slowly back over her spine instead, smoothing the shiver I feel ripple through her.

“You’re not going to die, Moon.”

She huffs against my skin, but it’s not annoyed. It’s bitter. “That’s not how the stories go.”

I shift beneath her, one arm curling tighter around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer until there’s no space left between us, until she’s buried against me like I can shield her from the Hollow, from the prophecy, from the weight of carrying all of us.

“The stories are shit,”

I mutter. “All of them.”

She doesn’t say anything, but I feel the way her fingers tighten against my ribs, the way her breath catches and shudders like she wants to believe me but can’t.

And because I can’t stop myself, because I’m still me even when the world’s burning, I drop my chin against her hair and murmur, voice low and soft and a little too honest, “Besides… if you die, who’s gonna put up with me?”

My fingers start moving again, tracing slow, lazy patterns across her skin, magic still humming between us, pulling her deeper into that heavy, safe space I can create for her even when everything else is coming apart.

Her breath has evened out against my throat, like she’s drifting—but I know better. She’s quiet, but it’s the kind of quiet that comes before the ground drops out beneath you. I can feel it in the way her fingers curl against my ribs, the subtle, restless movement in her shoulders like she’s fighting sleep and her own head at the same time.

“None of us want you to die, Moon.”

Her breath hitches faintly at that, and I press my lips to the crown of her head like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like it doesn’t feel like swallowing glass.

“Even Ambrose,”

I continue, voice a little rougher now, like the words scrape on their way out. “The cold bastard took a steering shaft through his fucking chest just to keep you alive.”

My fingers slide lower, tracing circles against her spine, grounding both of us.

“We’re not good men,”

I murmur into her hair. “We’re Sins. Selfish, dangerous, stupid. But none of us are gonna let you go down like that.”

There’s a pause—a long, heavy beat—and then her voice, soft and small, slips into the dark.

“What if it’s not anyone else?”

she whispers, her breath warm against my throat. “What if it’s me?”

That sinks sharp into my ribs, like she reached inside me and yanked something loose. She pulls back just enough to tilt her face up toward mine, and her eyes are heavy but sharp, clearer now despite the haze I’ve been feeding her.

“What if I can’t stop it?”

she says quietly. “What if what’s inside me is too much?”

Her fingers twitch against my chest like she wants to claw something out of herself. “What if it kills me anyway?”

I drag in a breath through my teeth, keep my arm tight around her waist because if I let go now, she’s going to spiral straight through the floor.

The smart thing—the cruel thing—would be to lie. To make some snarky, cutting joke, tell her she’s dramatic, tell her she’ll be fine because she’s ours and that’s how the story goes.

But I don’t.

Because I know what it feels like—to have something inside you that doesn’t stop eating, doesn’t stop growing, until there’s nothing left of who you used to be. Instead, I reach up, fingers curling under her chin until she has to look at me.

“That’s the thing, Moon,”

I murmur, voice low and dark and honest in a way I hate. “You’re too much. You always have been.”

My thumb brushes across her jaw, soft despite everything inside me fraying to pieces.

“But that’s why you survive. That’s why you’ll survive this.”

Her throat works, eyes flicking across my face like she’s searching for something—anything—to hold onto.

“And if you can’t stop it,”

I add, voice dipping sharper, dragging my mouth close to her ear, “then we’ll stop it for you. We’ll tear this world apart and put it back together if that’s what it takes.”

She shudders against me, and I know she’s still scared. I know it’s not enough.

So, because I’m me and I don’t know how else to fix the crack running straight through her chest, I tack on—

“And if the power inside you kills you, sweetheart…”

I pause, letting my lips ghost over the shell of her ear. “At least you’ll go out the hottest girl to ever wipe out a bloodline.”

She snorts before she can stop herself, and it’s soft, reluctant, but it’s there. Her head drops back against my chest, a sharp exhale escaping her.

I drag my thumb lazily over the curve of her shoulder, still tracing her like I’m mapping something I already know by heart, and when I speak, my voice is soft but slanted, curling around her like a vice.

“You’re Luna Dain now,”

I murmur, my breath catching against her hair like I can’t help it. “You can stop time itself, sweetheart. There’s no fucking way you’re dying.”

It slips out like it’s obvious, like I’m not handing her the softest truth I’ve got tucked under all the sarcasm and laziness.

She snorts into my chest, a sharp huff against my skin, then shifts just enough to tilt her face toward me, her eyes half-lidded and dangerous. “Why do you do that?”

Her voice is quiet, but it cuts clean.

I blink down at her, one brow arching lazily like I don’t know exactly what she’s asking. “Do what?”

She lifts her chin, her stare sharper now, the weight of it pressing down on me like a blade to the throat. “That,”

she says simply. “You call me that. By your last names.”

It’s not an accusation. It’s worse. It’s curiosity. The kind of curiosity that could gut me if I let it. For a second, I debate dodging the question. Making a joke. Telling her it sounds better than Moon, like I’m a self-important bastard naming her after myself.

But I don’t.

Instead, I let the quiet stretch between us, my hand slowing against her back, the heaviness of what I should’ve told her a long time ago sitting sharp on my tongue.

“It’s not a nickname, Moon,”

I say finally, voice dipping low, something softer and dangerous beneath it. “It’s a fact.”

Her brow furrows slightly, lips parting like she’s about to argue, but I don’t let her.

“That’s what binding is for us,”

I continue, my thumb dragging over her spine. “For humans, it’s paperwork and vows and rings they lose when they get drunk. For us, it’s magic in the blood. It’s choice wrapped in something older, something worse. Binding’s not a contract.”

My gaze drops to hers, snaring her there.

“It’s marriage,”

I say quietly. “Without the paperwork.”

I feel her still against me like she’s trying to make sense of it, like she’s pulling apart everything she thought she knew.

“You didn’t just take our power when you bound us,”

I murmur, voice slurring softer now, less teasing, more truth. “You took us.”

I drag in a breath, slow and rough, then add, “You took me.”

For a long, sharp moment, she doesn’t move, her fingers curling tighter against my ribs like she’s holding on to something she doesn’t know how to keep.

And then she exhales, slow and shaking, her voice slipping out like it hurts.

“I didn’t know.”

I smile into her hair, crooked and soft and a little bitter around the edges.

“Yeah, well,”

I murmur, pressing a kiss to her temple. “That’s the thing about us, sweetheart.”

I pull her closer, my voice sinking into her skin like a curse. “You never know what you’re binding yourself to until it’s too damn late.”

The words barely leave my mouth before she shifts against me, tilting her chin up, her eyes catching mine in the low light. There’s something sharp there, something soft curling underneath like she's trying not to laugh, but losing the battle.

“I want to speak to your manager,”

she says flatly.

I blink down at her, my brow quirking because she’s clearly not done. Her mouth tips into that dangerous curve I know too well—the one that means she’s about to gut me and I’m going to thank her for it.

“I’ve got a complaint,”

she continues, voice dry as hell. “Specifically about being married to Ambrose.”

The laugh punches out of me before I can stop it, sharp and loud and too fucking real. It rolls through my chest like she just set a match to something I didn’t know I was holding.

“Oh, sweetheart,”

I mutter, grinning wide as I drag a hand up her back, fingers threading into her hair like I need to touch her to keep from unraveling. “You’re gonna need upper management for that one. The gods themselves couldn’t untangle you from Ambrose Dalmar now.”

Her eyes narrow, amusement glinting dangerous and warm all at once. “Then I’d like to file a formal grievance.”

I huff another laugh, shaking my head as I drop my forehead to hers, the weight of her, the warmth of her, anchoring me in a way nothing else ever has.

“Sorry, darling,”

I murmur, voice rough around the edges. “No refunds. No returns. You bound him. You bound me. Hell, you even married Silas and Riven. You’re the worst impulse buyer in history.”

Her breath shudders out against my lips, and I feel her smile before I see it.

She pulls back just enough to look at me again, her expression soft but sharp underneath. “What happens now?”

she asks quietly, the weight of everything she’s carrying bleeding into her voice despite the teasing.

I drag my thumb across her jaw, slow, deliberate, the spell of my sloth magic still wrapped soft around us both.

“Now?”

I echo, voice low, curling around her like a promise. “Now you survive, Moon. Whether you want to or not.”

And when her lips part like she’s about to argue, to remind me what fate has always said about Binders and the fifth crest, I lean in, close enough to breathe her in, and cut her off before she can.

“Because you married us,”

I murmur, voice dipping to something dark and dangerous. “And we’re not letting you go.”

Her breath hitches faint against my skin, but it’s no longer sharp, no longer tight with the weight of prophecy and the fifth crest suffocating her. It’s softer now, looser at the edges like she’s crawling her way back to herself and using me to do it.

Good. I’ll let her.

I feel the curve of her smile before I see it, her mouth pressed against my throat like she’s trying to hide it, but it’s there—wicked and warm.

“You know,”

she says, voice lazy now, drowsy but sharp underneath, “if we’re going by the whole marriage-without-the-paperwork thing… you probably should’ve taken me on a honeymoon.”

The laugh rips out of me before I can stop it, rough and dark and entirely too fond. I lean my head back against the pillow, grinning up at the ceiling like she’s already the worst decision I’ve ever made and I want to make it again.

“A honeymoon?”

I echo, dragging my thumb across her spine again, slow and deliberate. “Darling, you’re lucky I didn’t drag you to a courthouse and make you sign prenup clauses in blood.”

She shifts, chin propping against my chest now so she can look at me properly, one brow arched, her expression all sweet venom. “What would you even put in a prenup?”

I grin lazily down at her, letting my fingers skim up her bare arm, my voice pitched low and full of mock-thoughtfulness. “Clause one: Luna Dain is not allowed to acquire any new morally gray, anciently cursed men without the express written permission of Dain.”

She snorts, rolling her eyes like she’s not fighting a smile.

“Clause two,”

I add, drawing circles into her shoulder again, “no sacrificing yourself dramatically without first consulting your designated sin husband.”

Her brow lifts higher. “And what if I want a divorce?”

I hum, pretending to think about it, even as my thumb drags slow and possessive across her skin.

“No such thing,”

I murmur, voice dipping rougher now, that lazy edge fading beneath the weight of how true it is. “You married five deadly sins, sweetheart. You’re stuck with us.”

Her smile falters slightly, something sharper slipping through, something dangerous and sweet and devastating all at once, but she doesn’t argue. She just shifts closer, her body melting against mine like she’s finally letting herself breathe.

I tip my chin, catching her gaze again, that grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. “Though, if you’re serious about the honeymoon thing…”

Her eyes narrow immediately, but I don’t stop.

“I hear Silas has a timeshare in the Void Realm,”

I continue, voice deadpan. “One bed, no windows, unlimited chaos energy.”

She groans, dragging a hand over her face, but she’s laughing now, low and quiet against my skin, and I can feel it unraveling something tight inside her.

“You’re the worst,”

she mutters.

I grin wider, tipping her chin up with two fingers so she has to look at me, so she can see the weight in my eyes beneath the laziness.

“Yeah,”

I murmur. “But you still married me.”

And because I’m me, because I don’t know how to stop when it comes to her, I shift beneath her, my hand curling low at her waist, thumb grazing over the edge of her ribs like I could rewrite the shape of her.

“And speaking of honeymoons…”

I murmur, letting my voice dip, lazy and dark, until it curls around her like a hook.

Before she can answer, I roll, slow but deliberate, tipping her onto her back so she’s splayed beneath me, her hair a mess across the pillow, her eyes bright and sharp and so fucking dangerous. I lean over her, one arm braced beside her head, the other dragging slow and possessive up the line of her thigh.

She laughs—low and wrecked and breathless—as if I haven’t already wrecked her entirely, and I want to bottle that sound and keep it for every night the world tries to take her from me.

“You’re ridiculous,”

she breathes, the corners of her mouth twitching, her body loose and warm beneath mine now.

I grin, slow and sharp, like I already know I’ve won this round. “Ridiculously married to you, sweetheart.”

Her eyes narrow, but there’s no heat in it—just the kind of fond, sharp ache she only lets show when she thinks I’m not paying attention.

“You’re supposed to be my quiet one,”

she mutters.

I drop my mouth to her neck, dragging my lips slow along the curve of her throat, grinning against her skin. “You married wrong.”

Her fingers curl into my hair like she’s trying to ground herself, like she’s still waiting for the world to tilt out from under her. I feel the way her pulse skips beneath my mouth, the way her body hums sharp and soft at the same time.

And I make sure my voice stays light when I add, “Besides, honeymoons are overrated. You’ve already got the best part.”

She huffs a laugh, but her eyes meet mine then—bright, dangerous, soft in a way she only ever is with me.

“And what’s that?”

she asks quietly.

I drag my thumb across her jaw, lean down so my mouth brushes hers like a secret.

“Me.”