Page 26 of The Sin Binder's (The Seven Sins Academy #4)

I’ve never minded being bound. That’s the thing no one talks about—the convenience of it, the predictability. A Sin Binder wants what we can give, and what I give is lust, decadent and destructive in equal measure. I’ve always known how to pay my dues. An easy equation: pleasure for power, devotion bought in how fast I could make them come undone beneath me.

But Luna... she rewrote the math the moment she looked at me like I was more than what I could take from her.

She never asks for anything when she touches me. Never demands I shatter myself to keep her satisfied. She lets me exist. Broken. Frayed. Frighteningly human.

Her bond doesn’t press against my ribs the way the others used to. It doesn’t choke. It doesn’t pull. It hums low and constant like an open door, like she’s always waiting, patient, no matter how long it takes me to step through.

And tonight—when I can’t sit in my own skin another second, when the taste of Branwen’s power still sits like ash in the back of my throat—I follow that door.

Track it straight to her.

I find her outside, legs curled beneath her like something soft, something dangerous pretending at innocence, a book cracked open on her lap. One of the ones we dragged out of Blackwell’s subterranean graveyard of secrets. The spine looks brittle in her hands, but her shoulders are loose, her mouth tilted in the barest hint of a smile.

It hits me sideways, the way she looks when she’s not fighting the world.

She glances up before I even step fully into the clearing, like she felt me before she saw me. Her smile blooms like something ancient and steady, and she lifts a hand, patting the patch of grass beside her without hesitation. Like it’s mine.

Like I am.

I sink down next to her, letting my weight fold into the earth, and the bond hums between us, soft, warm, not pressing. Never pressing. Just there.

"Studying ancient death cults for fun now?" I murmur, voice low, teasing around the edges because that’s easier than admitting how much I needed this.

She doesn’t look away from the book as she answers, but her smile sharpens.

"Just trying to figure out how to keep you all alive."

The words land heavier than they should, slipping under my skin like silk and steel. It would be easier if she wanted me for my body, my sin, the quick and easy fix of my magic. But she wants the ugly parts, too. The fractured, splintered pieces Branwen left behind.

She flips the page, her fingers delicate, like even the paper deserves to be handled gently.

"You always do that," I say quietly.

Her brow arches, amused. "Do what?"

I glance at her, let my eyes drag over her face, her mouth, her pulse fluttering just beneath her throat.

"Make room for me. Even when I don’t deserve it."

Her smile softens at the edges, a thing sharp and dangerous melting into something that looks a lot like forgiveness.

"You always deserve it, ."

She says it like a fucking truth. Like a fact she could carve into stone.

And I don’t know what to do with that.

The words catch in my throat like glass.

I’m not used to this—quiet, soft, devastatingly simple. I’ve spent centuries knowing exactly what I am, what I offer. A pretty disaster wrapped in temptation, the one who’s supposed to fuck away the ache, drown the darkness in moans and sweat and teeth. No one’s ever wanted anything else. No one’s ever asked.

So when I murmur, voice scraped low and sharp as a blade, “I’m sorry I haven’t given you what you probably expected of me,”

it’s not sarcasm. It’s not lust. It’s the hollow truth scraped from the pit of me.

Her gaze doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t look away.

Luna hums, a quiet sound that settles somewhere deep in my chest, and her fingers reach out, brushing my arm like I’m something worth touching. Like she isn’t afraid I’ll ruin her.

"You’re an idiot," she says, and there’s no heat behind it, only fond exasperation, like she can see through every cracked piece of me. She traces her fingertips over my forearm, light and lingering. "I don’t need sex from you, ."

It shouldn’t feel like a gut punch. But it does.

Because she means it.

Because she’s the first person who ever has.

She closes the book on her lap with a soft snap and shifts, drawing her knees up, turning her body fully toward me like I’m the thing she wants to study now. Her eyes flick over me, slow, assessing, knowing.

"I need you to breathe," she continues, voice softer now, like a secret between the two of us. "To want to exist. I need you whole."

The bond between us thrums—not demanding, not possessive. It waits, open and warm, patient in a way that makes me want to scream.

Or fall apart.

Or kiss her until the only thing left between us is breath and hunger and the taste of everything she’s offering without asking for anything back.

I drag a hand through my hair, swallowing hard. "You shouldn’t want me whole, little moon. You’d like me better shattered."

She smiles, sharp and bright and impossibly kind. "I want all your pieces, . Even the sharp ones."

It’s unbearable, the way she says it.

I lean back on my hands and tilt my head toward the stars like I can stop the ache building in my chest.

I can’t.

Because she’s everything I’ve never let myself want.

Her voice is soft, almost hesitant—a sharp contrast to the way she usually speaks to me, all teeth and tease and that wicked little smile that says she knows exactly how to cut me open. But now, her fingers brush over the spine of the book in her lap like she’s smoothing out something delicate, and when she finally looks at me, it’s with that vulnerability she rarely lets slip.

"I'm sorry for asking," she murmurs, her gaze flicking away like she doesn’t want to watch me flinch. "I hate this, prying. But… you’re Ambrose’s friend. You’ve known him longer than anyone, and I need to know—am I winning?"

My brow arches, lips twitching despite myself because it’s so very her, the way she asks like it’s a fucking contest, like this isn’t the most impossible war we’ve ever fought. Like her heart isn’t bleeding itself dry every time she reaches for one of us.

"You think this is a game, little moon?" I lean back, bracing my weight on my palms, watching her through hooded eyes. "That you’re racking up points every time one of us stumbles closer?"

She flushes, looking away, but doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to.

"Last night," I say slowly, deliberately, tasting each word like smoke on my tongue, "Ambrose didn’t just sleep next to you. He fucking stayed. All night. That man doesn’t stay, Luna."

Her eyes flick to mine, uncertain, hope flickering behind them like a match she’s terrified to light.

I let the smile come then, the real one, the one I haven’t worn in far too long. The one that used to get me anything I wanted because it made people feel seen, desired, ruined. But this one’s only for her.

"You’re not winning, love," I murmur, voice dropping low and dark, "You already won. The stupid bastard just hasn’t figured out yet that he never stood a chance."

She breathes out, and it’s not relief—it’s something heavier, messier, like she wants to believe me but doesn’t dare.

So I lean forward, close enough she can’t look anywhere but at me, and add, "He’s still pretending he’s above all this. That you didn’t crawl under his skin and stitch yourself there. But you did. You’re the rot in his ribcage now, and there’s no cure."

Her mouth parts, her throat working like she wants to say something and can’t.

And because I’m me, and I can’t leave well enough alone, I grin and murmur, "Frankly, I’m impressed. No one’s ever gotten that bastard to do anything he didn’t want. Until you."

She huffs out a laugh, shaking her head, but the smile on her lips is real now.

And that’s when I reach over, casually plucking the book from her lap and flipping it shut. "But since we’re being honest," I add, voice dropping further, "Don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing, either."

Her eyes narrow. "What’s that?"

"Winning," I smirk, leaning back like I haven’t just confessed the one thing none of them will admit. "With all of us."

Her smile falters at the edges when I say it—that she’s winning with all of us—and I catch the way her fingers twitch against the closed book like she’s fighting herself, like she’s trying to hold something back. But I can see her unraveling right here, in the way she bites her lip and pretends she’s not.

Then she looks at me, straight through me, and that’s when she says it, soft but devastating.

“And what about you, ?”

Her voice tilts toward something playful, but her eyes are sharp, cutting. “What exactly am I winning with you?”

That question shouldn't be dangerous. But it is. Because she’s the only one who’s ever asked it like she means it.

I lean in, slowly, the way you approach a wild thing, a creature that could bite you bloody but that you want to tame anyway.

I keep my smile lazy, easy, like none of this matters.

"Depends," I murmur. "What are you trying to win?"

She doesn’t blink. Doesn't hesitate.

"Everything."

That word sinks under my skin like a knife, and fuck, I feel it.

I’ve been Lust incarnate longer than the concept of desire existed in this world, but the way she says it? The way she looks at me like I could be something more than what I've always been?

It makes me reckless.

So I tip my head, give her my best, slow, dangerous smile—the one that’s ruined empires and entire bloodlines.

"What do you want from me, little moon?" My voice drops, the words silk over razors. "Tell me. Say it out loud. I’ll give it to you."

Her eyes flick to mine, and she doesn’t look away this time.

"Your heart," she says.

There’s no tease in it. No challenge. No clever play at seduction.

Just that simple, brutal truth. And I feel it like a punch, low and devastating, because she has no idea what she’s asking.

"You don’t want that," I murmur, the smile slipping, something real bleeding through. "Trust me, love, no one’s ever survived my heart."

Her mouth curls, soft and sad and stubborn all at once.

"I’ll survive it."

I shake my head, glance away like I’m trying to laugh this off, but my chest aches too much to fake it.

"You should’ve asked for something easier," I mutter. "My body, my power, my fucking soul. You could’ve had all of it without asking."

She doesn’t say anything—just slides her fingers over mine, casual and deliberate like she’s laying claim without even trying.

"You already gave me all that," she murmurs. "I want the part of you, you won’t."

Her words drop like stones in the quiet between us, heavier than she probably realizes. She says it so simply, like she’s just offering me the weather, but it lands like a blade straight to the center of me.

"You have mine," she says.

I should laugh, should tease her, flip it back like I always do—cut the gravity of her honesty with something cheap and wicked because that’s what I’ve always done. But I can’t. Not when she’s looking at me like that, like I’m worth something more than the pieces I’ve been reduced to. Like she doesn’t see the fracture lines or worse, sees all of them and still chooses to hand me her goddamn heart anyway.

"You were the first one who was nice to me here," she adds, voice quieter now, like it costs her something to say it. "Even though you had your own reasons to be. I know you did." She smiles then, soft and crooked and so fucking kind it guts me. "I get it. The whole sex god thing. But I see you, . Not just the shine you throw around. I see you."

She shifts a little closer, her shoulder brushing mine like it’s nothing but it feels like everything.

"And I do love you," she says, brutal and beautiful, like a blade dipped in honey. "Not because of what you can give me, or how good you make me feel—though, let’s not lie, you’re very good at that." A little smirk at the corner of her mouth, enough to make me want to devour her. "But because when everything here was cold and cruel and sharp, you were the first person who made me feel like I belonged."

My throat tightens, and I glance away because I don’t know what the fuck to do with that. No one’s ever handed me something like this without wanting to tear it out of my chest afterward.

"And I’m sorry," she continues, softer now, the words slipping past her lips like a confession. "For everything that’s happened to you. For what Branwen did. For how the world has tried to shatter you over and over again."

Her fingers graze my arm like she can smooth the cracks in me, and I want to believe it’s that simple.

"I wish I could take it all away from you," she murmurs. "If I could carry that weight for you, I would."

Gods, she means it. She’s not just saying it to be sweet—she’d burn herself alive to ease the ache in me.

I look at her then, really look, and it almost ruins me. Because she’s the only one who’s ever seen past the shine, past the mess, past the broken, ugly pieces Branwen left behind—and still wanted me.

Still fucking loves me.

So I do the only thing I can.

I lean in, my forehead pressing against hers, our breaths tangling in the space between us.

"You already took it away," I murmur. "You just didn’t know it."

She shoves away from me before I can stop her, that wild little hurricane look already sharpening in her eyes. Luna’s always been soft when she wants to be, but it’s this part of her—the part that burns hotter than hellfire when the world hurts the people she loves—that makes me want to crawl across glass for her.

She stalks toward the pillar like it’s the source of everything that’s wrong. And maybe it is.

"I’m going to make Branwen pay," she bites out, voice low and vicious, like a blade dragged over velvet. "For what she did to you, . For what she’s done to all of us."

And before I can get the word Luna out of my throat, she kicks the damn thing. Like it’s just a stone wall and not the living, breathing curse that’s been eating us alive since the moment we were bound.

The ground hums beneath my palms.

I freeze.

The veins of obsidian running through the pillar pulse once, faintly, like a heartbeat kicking back to life. Then again, brighter. The runes stitched into the stone flare open like someone tearing off their skin, and then it happens—so fast, so impossibly fucking wrong—that my body lurches toward her.

The entire pillar ignites.

Light fractures through it like gold pouring from every crack, every line carved into that cursed rock. The ground beneath us ripples, the air distorting around her, and behind her—fuck me—a portal tears itself open, yawning wide like something hungry and waiting.

I can feel it. The pull of it in my chest, in the place Branwen cracked open inside me and left hollow. It’s them. Orin. Lucien. Their magic bleeding through that rift like a gasp of air after drowning.

"Luna—" My voice comes out rough, too quiet over the sound of the earth moaning beneath us.

She’s standing right in front of the damn portal, her hand still pressed against the stone like she belongs to it, like it belongs to her now. And she’s staring at it like she doesn’t know how she just did that. As if it was nothing, like she flicked a switch without meaning to.

The runes crawl up her arm, luminous and alive, glowing the same bruised gold as the portal behind her. It isn’t just the pillar reacting—it’s her. The bond, the fifth crest, everything inside her responding to something older and darker than all of us.

And I realize then, with a sinking in my chest like the world is about to tilt again—

Orin isn’t holding it closed anymore.

Either he let go.

Or something took him.

My heart slams once, cold and ugly, before I push to my feet. "We need the others. Now."

Luna blinks over her shoulder at me, and the glow on her skin flickers, like a living thing. And whatever’s about to come through it—Orin, Lucien, or something else entirely—none of us are ready for it.