Page 25 of The Sin Binder's (The Seven Sins Academy #4)

The door doesn’t creak. It doesn’t announce him. It opens like a secret spilling its mouth, slow and deliberate, and I don’t look away.

I’ve been here too long already—spread across his bed like a goddamn offering. The silk sheets chilled against my skin, heat radiating from between my thighs where want lives like a wound. He told me to wait, and I did. Naked. Aroused. Legs open at the door like I’m carved from sin and indulgence itself.

Ambrose Dalmar has always known how to command without raising his voice. And I’ve always known how to obey when it suits me.

He steps inside, precise as ever. Unhurried. His coat still perfectly buttoned, gloves in hand like he’s been at war and now, finally, has the time to dismantle me.

The door clicks shut behind him.

Neither of us speak.

My breath catches when his gaze drags up—slow, brutal—over every inch of me. His mouth doesn’t move. His eyes, though? They eat me alive. Controlled. Starving.

And then—gods help me—he smiles. Not soft. Not warm. Like a blade sliding between ribs. That smile is a negotiation.

“Good girl,”

he says finally, voice dipped in silk and steel.

I swallow hard because the sound of it cuts through me sharper than any magic I’ve ever touched.

“You like being good for me?”

he asks, slow as honey, crossing the room with all the inevitability of a storm. “Or do you just like knowing how far I’ll go when you are?”

My breath shudders out. The bond between us thrums low, a taut hum under my skin—his side locked, mine wide open. I can feel it, the echo of what he refuses to let himself feel. The restraint choking him.

I arch a brow, because I know how to play this too. “I like that you keep pretending you’re the one in charge.”

That earns me a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Almost a laugh. Almost.

But he doesn’t laugh.

Instead, Ambrose drags his gloves off one finger at a time, methodical, eyes never leaving mine. Like stripping himself bare is an inconvenience, not an invitation.

“You think I don’t see what you’re doing,”

he murmurs, voice gone quieter now, rougher at the edges. “Letting Caspian’s lust bleed into you. Letting it twist you into something wanton and desperate.”

He drops the gloves onto the nightstand.

Then steps to the foot of the bed, looking down at me like he’s deciding which part of me he’ll ruin first.

“You’re not desperate for me, little sin,”

he says. “You’re desperate because of him.”

I hold his gaze. “And yet I’m here.”

His jaw ticks, just once, like that admission cuts deeper than I intended. But I meant it. Every word. Because whatever lives in my chest for Caspian, Elias, Riven, Silas… it doesn’t change what I want from Ambrose.

It doesn’t soften it.

If anything, it makes it worse.

He studies me like he’s reading a playbook written in blood.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he unbuttons his coat and drapes it over the chair.

“You’re here,”

he echoes, voice low. “Naked. Spread for me.”

He unfastens his cuffs, rolling them back one fold at a time. Each movement feels like a fucking ceremony.

“And you know what that means.”

I swallow, throat dry. “Tell me.”

Ambrose moves to the side of the bed, kneeling—kneeling—on the mattress beside me. His fingers trail down my thigh, featherlight, making me shudder.

“It means you’re mine tonight.”

His hand slides up, deliberate, pausing at my hip.

“And I’ll make sure you don’t forget it.”

Then, without ceremony, without pretense, he leans in and drags his mouth over the inside of my knee—up, up, until I’m shivering beneath him.

But he doesn’t give me more. Not yet.

Instead, he lifts his head, voice quiet but sharp enough to carve me open. “But understand me, .”

I blink, breathing ragged now.

He smiles again—cool, devastating.

“This is not mercy.”

Then he moves like a man coming to collect a debt. And I—wanton, wicked, already undone—let him.

He moves over me like inevitability, every shift deliberate, every inch of him a controlled weight pressing me down without even touching me. He cages me beneath him, knees planted firm at my hips, his gaze dragging over my body like possession and violence stitched together. He doesn’t touch—not yet. He just looks, dark eyes devouring, calculated and cold, until I’m burning beneath it.

When he moves, it’s without hesitation. His hand skims the inside of my thigh, fingers sliding firm and unrepentant, spreading me wider like I belong open for him. There’s no tease in the way he handles me. No question. He touches me like I’m inevitable too.

“This is what you wanted,”

he murmurs, voice slow and devastating, like velvet dragged across a knife’s edge. His fingers ghost against my hipbone, casual, proprietary. “To be nothing but a vessel for everyone else’s craving.”

The words hit sharp and low, making my breath catch even though I know better. Because he’s right. I’ve let myself become this—open, wanton, a siphon for every sin stitched into me.

My magic hums under my skin, restless and aching. It’s not just lust anymore; it’s older, darker, heavier. Caspian’s bond still sits warm and hungry in my chest, but it’s Ambrose’s hands, his voice, the weight of his gaze that tips me over the edge.

And I start to spill. Slowly, deliberately. Magic trickles from me like silk poured down his throat, a thread at first, enough to make his shoulders tighten.

He dips lower, mouth hovering over my stomach, breath skating across my skin without touching. His hand slides up, spreading wide over my sternum, pinning me down—not harsh, not cruel, just enough to hold me still. A reminder that I’m his tonight.

“You’re leaking,”

he murmurs, thumb tapping once against my chest like he’s checking the pulse he knows he’s unraveling. “You’re not subtle, little sin.”

I arch toward him, barely moving, magic licking at the pulse in his wrist. “Then stop pretending you don’t want it.”

He smiles—razor-sharp, humorless—and then he moves.

Without warning, without mercy, his hand slides down, and his fingers sink inside me in one smooth, brutal stroke. No teasing. No easing me into it. He fucks me open with his hand, deliberate, possessive, his thumb pressing against my clit in a rhythm meant to dismantle, not seduce.

I gasp, hips twitching beneath him, but he keeps me pinned, palm steady against my chest like he owns me.

“Stay still,”

he breathes, voice rough now, dark. “You wanted to give yourself to me. So give.”

I obey. I stop chasing. I stop arching. I let him use me how he wants, every thrust of his fingers brutal and unrelenting.

But my magic doesn’t obey.

It keeps spilling, winding around him in pulses of heat and craving, threading through his skin, through the pulse beneath his wrist, until I feel the moment it hits him.

It’s subtle—the flicker in his eyes, the flex of his jaw, the breath he holds too long before letting it out sharp.

“Don’t,”

he warns, voice scraping low, brittle around the edges.

But I do. I pour more into him, a flood now, a pulse that hums and burns, laced with want and hunger, the craving he refuses to name.

His rhythm falters for half a second—just a flicker, but I feel it. His fingers curl harder, deeper, dragging a sound from my throat that’s almost a sob.

“You wanted to be filled,”

he growls, the edge of his voice fraying now, unraveling under the weight of what I’m giving him. “So take it.”

And I do.

The orgasm rips through me sharp and fast, hips jerking despite his weight, body clenching around his fingers, magic slamming out of me like a wave meant to drown.

He tries to hold it back—he tries—but I feel him falter. His breath catches in his throat, sharp and wrecked, and he bows over me like he’s trying not to drown in everything I just poured into him.

And I smile, breathless and wild, even as I’m still shaking beneath him.

Because he told me to wait like a good girl.

And I made him fall apart first.

He moves without ceremony, rough and unrelenting, pulling his fingers from me and gripping my thighs hard enough to bruise. His hands slide under, flipping me like I weigh nothing, shoving me onto my stomach, hips dragged back to the edge of the bed.

His voice is a rasp now, low and vicious. “You want to pour your magic into me, little sin? You want to flood me until I choke on it?”

I barely have time to nod, face pressed to the mattress, heart hammering, body still trembling from the last orgasm.

He doesn’t wait.

I feel the drag of his cock against me—thick, heavy, already wet with the mess he made of me. And then he’s slamming inside, one brutal thrust that knocks the breath from my lungs, his grip bruising at my hips to keep me exactly where he wants me.

I cry out—sharp, wrecked—but it’s not pain. Gods, it’s not pain.

It’s everything.

He doesn’t ease up. His rhythm is punishing, relentless, each thrust snapping my body forward against the bed, his pace brutal like he’s trying to fuck the defiance out of me, like he’s trying to fuck the magic out of me.

And I give it to him.

Every thrust, I pour more of it into him. Lust and hunger and something darker, slipping under his skin like poison and sweetness, weaving into his veins until I can feel him unraveling beneath it.

His breath breaks, a growl curling in his throat like he’s fighting it—but he can’t. Not now. Not with me pouring all of that want, that craving, that unbearable tether into every thrust, every drag of him inside me.

I hear him snarl, low and dangerous. “You’re doing it again.”

I don’t stop. I push back against him, arching into every brutal snap of his hips, spreading my legs wider like I can take more, like I can give more.

“Take it,”

I gasp, voice rough and wrecked beneath the weight of what he’s doing to me. “You want it, Ambrose. Take it.”

His grip tightens, fingers digging into my flesh, bruising and possessive. His cock drives deeper, harder, hitting that spot that makes my vision blur, makes my magic spill harder, sharper, until it coils around him like chains.

“You’re a fucking menace,”

he grits out, voice cracking like something’s breaking loose beneath it.

I smile, feral, even as I moan when he slams deeper.

“Yours,”

I breathe. His pace stutters for a second, like he can’t fucking stand it—that I’m wrecking him while he’s trying to ruin me.

Then he lets go.

One hand slips around my throat, pulling me up against his chest without slowing, his mouth at my ear, breath ragged.

“You’re going to come again,”

he growls. “And you’re going to feel every fucking second of me inside you.”

I nod, breathless, shaking, already right there.

He fucks me like punishment. Like absolution. Like he hates me for what I’ve done to him and wants to carve it out of me with every brutal thrust.

And I love it. I come again—harder this time, messier, my body collapsing into his hold as my magic slams into him like a tidal wave.

He chokes on it, hips stuttering, his grip bruising and frantic now, his composure ripped away completely. And when he finally follows, burying himself deep, growling my name like it’s the last thing holding him together—I smile.

Because I made him fall apart.

Again.

Ambrose doesn’t even get the chance to recover.

The second I feel him spill inside me, the second his hips stutter and his breath breaks against my ear like he’s finally, finally undone—I pour more into him.

It’s not subtle anymore. Not careful.

The magic crashes out of me, wild and consuming, threading through every inch of him like silk woven with barbed wire, like hunger wrapped in heat. It fills the cracks I’ve split open in him and forces them wider, tearing through the seams of his control until I feel him shudder, hands flexing uselessly at my hips like he’s trying to anchor himself.

It doesn’t work.

I don’t let him breathe.

I twist in his grip, dragging myself back onto the bed and flipping onto my back, legs falling open again, slick and wrecked and wanting.

“Again,”

I pant, voice raw, throat wrecked. “Don’t stop.”

His eyes are feral now—glowing faintly, wild, lips parted like he’s drowning. And I know, I know, he’s about to say no. About to say I’ve poured too much into him, that he can’t hold it.

So I flood him harder.

His breath catches, sharp and broken, and I see it—the exact moment he snaps.

Ambrose growls, low and vicious, crawling over me like a man possessed. His mouth finds mine, rough and bruising, devouring me like he wants to eat the magic straight out of me. He doesn’t waste time—doesn’t hesitate—his cock already hard again, dragging against my slick folds like his body belongs to me now, like I’ve made him something ravenous.

He slams back inside without warning. I cry out, legs locking around his hips, pulling him deeper even as he pounds into me like he’s trying to drive the magic out of my body and into his own.

But I keep giving.

Every thrust, every snap of his hips, I spill more. It coils through the bond, through my skin, slick and consuming, until he’s cursing against my throat, fucking me like he can’t stop.

Because he can’t.

He pulls out when I come again, flips me onto my stomach without speaking, hauls my hips up and takes me from behind—rougher this time, hips slamming into me hard enough I see stars.

And I keep pouring.

My magic crawls into his veins, humming dark and sweet beneath his skin, feeding the want until I feel him unraveling again—his thrusts sharp, desperate, teeth sinking into my shoulder like he’s trying to keep himself tethered.

I come again, wrecked and shaking, my body clenching around him, and he follows, breath ragged, cock twitching inside me.

But it doesn’t stop.

I don’t stop.

The moment he pulls out, slick and spent and breathing like he’s about to fall apart, I flip onto my back and drag him down again, hands curling in his hair, pulling him to my mouth.

“Again,”

I breathe against his lips. “More.”

He shakes his head once, voice breaking. “You’re going to kill me.”

I smile, wicked and soft, pressing my magic into him until he’s gasping, until I feel his cock twitch against my thigh, already hardening again.

“I’m going to ruin you,”

I whisper.

And I do.

He takes me again.

And again.

And again.

Until neither of us can breathe without the taste of the other in our mouths. Until there’s no room left in his body for anything but me. Until he forgets who he was before I made him mine.

By the time I’m done with him, he’s wrecked. Sweat slicks his skin, chest heaving like he’s run himself into the ground, muscles trembling beneath the weight of what I’ve poured into him. His hair sticks damp to his forehead, the crisp, untouchable Ambrose Dalmar unraveled into something real and ruined—red, raw, utterly mine.

His thrusts slowed long ago, hips dragging like every movement costs him everything. But I didn’t let him stop. I kept pulling him back under, kept pouring more into him, every wave of magic, every pulse of sin, every drop of craving until I hollowed him out.

And now, he’s empty.

Spent.

He collapses beside me, arm draped heavy across his face like he’s trying to catch his breath, like he’s shielding himself from the way I’m still watching him. His body hums with the aftermath of it, his magic tangled and full, overwhelmed, overstretched.

And for the first time since I’ve known him—he doesn’t move.

Ambrose always leaves. Always tucks himself back into that sharp, cold armor and walks out like nothing touched him, like he didn’t just fall apart in my hands. But now, his body is too heavy, too drained, too fucking tired to do anything but stay.

His breath slows eventually, muscles softening, his weight sinking deeper into the mattress.

Still, he doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t run.

I roll onto my side, propping my head on my hand, watching him without shame. His eyes are half-closed, lashes damp, lips parted, throat exposed in a way he’d never allow if he had the energy to stop me.

“You’re not leaving,”

I murmur quietly, voice soft around the edges, wrapping around the bond that still pulses low and dangerous between us.

His brow furrows, a flicker of the man who always controls every piece of the board.

But he doesn’t lift his arm. Doesn’t argue.

“Can’t,”

he mutters eventually, voice rough, shredded from use. “You… drained me.”

My smile is sharp and sweet. “Good.”

I tuck myself against him without asking, curling into the wreckage of him, letting the scent of sweat and sex and magic settle over us like a second skin.

He doesn’t resist.

His arm drops, heavy and clumsy, sliding around my back.

His breathing evens.

Ambrose Dalmar—controlled, calculating, dangerous—falls asleep in my bed for the first time, because I ruined him too much to leave.

And I make sure to keep my magic wrapped around him even in sleep, because I want him to remember this in the morning.

That he stayed.

That I made him stay.