Page 30 of The Sin Binder's (The Seven Sins Academy #4)

The morning crawls in slow, gray, and sullen. Like the village itself knows what waits at the end of this walk to the cathedral and is mourning us early. I sit at the rough, splintered table tucked in the corner of the tavern, one knee drawn up, chin resting against it, my gaze cutting toward the door like a blade.

The others are still scattered—most of them nursing hangovers in various states of pathetic disarray—but I’m here, awake, wired beneath the calm. My fingers tap a mindless rhythm against the scarred wood as the weight of last night curls like smoke in the back of my throat. I’m not thinking about the fight or the drink, not really.

I’m thinking about the prophecy—the one that spoke of Ambrose’s death and how none of them remembered until Caspian pieced it together.

I’m thinking about the pillar. About Branwen. About Lucien and Orin.

But mostly, I’m thinking about what my clone whispered to me in that binding chamber, in that cracked circle filled with bone-deep secrets.

That this place—the Hollow, Branwen’s realm—is where Sin Binders go when they die.

And if that’s true… if this is some graveyard for every Sin Binder who ever existed, for the ones who clawed and seduced and ruined the Sins before me—Then there’s a real chance that some of their old flames are still walking around here.

I can almost feel them, lurking just out of sight, ex-lovers like ghosts haunting the edges of this realm, waiting to sink their teeth back in. Not Branwen—not the villain we all know—but the others. The ones my boys never talk about. The ones they loved once, or lusted after. The ones who probably wore their teeth on smiles and bruised them in the places I’ve worked so hard to heal.

And the idea of it, the thought that one of them might stroll through that tavern door like she still has a claim on them, that she might smile at Elias, or Silas, or even Caspian the way I smile at them—

It makes something dark twist in me. Not jealousy. I know what I have with them. I know the bonds. The way they look at me like I could shatter them and they’d ask for more.

No, it’s not jealousy. It’s possession. It’s violence coiled in silk.

If one of those women walks through that door, I will gut this entire realm and salt the bones. I will burn the Hollow to the fucking ground and lock the door behind me so none of them—none of those shadows—ever find their way back here again.

A mug thuds onto the table beside me, sloshing dark ale across the scarred wood. I don’t have to look to know it’s Riven. His presence slides against my skin like the first drag of breath after surfacing from deep water, solid and sharp, but even he doesn’t speak. He just drops down beside me without ceremony, waiting like I’m the one who’s about to snap.

And maybe I am. Because I can’t shake this feeling—the one telling me that something is coming for us, and it’s not just Branwen this time.

I lean back in the chair, stretch my arms out over the back like a queen at court, my gaze still pinned to the door, daring it to open.

Because if one of them tries to take what’s mine… I will end them.

The scrape of wood on stone grates against my skull as I drag my spoon through the half-eaten mess of whatever the tavern called breakfast. My plate’s cold. I don’t even taste it.

Riven it’s the impending storm, the march to the cathedral, the weight of everything that's happened since I bound them to me. He hasn’t said it outright—he knows me better than that—but I see it in the way his gaze lingers a beat too long, in the way he doesn't ask.

And I let him think it.

Because if I said the truth aloud—that I’m sitting here quietly homicidal over the idea of women who are already dead, over ghosts I haven’t even seen—I’d sound pathetic.

Possessive. Like the girl I swore I’d never be again.

So I let him think it’s Branwen, let him believe it’s the war brewing around us and not the war tearing me open from the inside. Because this mood—the sharp edge lodged beneath my ribs, the way every bite tastes like ash—isn’t about Branwen at all.

It’s about the ghosts I can't see. It’s about the ones I’m sure are watching.

The crack of a fist against wood upstairs has me glancing up, and then the unmistakable sound of bickering footfalls, heavy and graceless, stumbling down the staircase like they’re both too big for it.

Silas hits the bottom first, elbowing Elias so hard he nearly faceplants into the bannister. Elias retaliates with a shove that’s more petulant than violent, muttering something about how Silas slept with his knee in his back all night and how he’s going to shave Silas’s eyebrows off in his sleep.

They’re a mess.

Elias’s shirt is only half-buttoned, dark hair sticking up like he’s been electrocuted, eyes still sleep-heavy and sharp when they land on me. Silas isn’t even wearing shoes, one sock pulled halfway off, like he got distracted halfway through putting them on.

Usually, the sight of them—my boys, my bonded idiots—would pull a laugh out of me without effort.

Today, I don’t move. Don’t smile.

Silas ruffles Elias’s hair, which earns him a groan and a slap to the chest. They stumble over each other like puppies, fighting to get to the table first, until Elias drops gracelessly into the chair across from me and rests his chin on the table like he’s dying.

“This floor,”

he mumbles, voice rough with sleep and last night’s ale, “is stickier than my soul.”

Silas snorts and throws himself into the chair beside him, leaning so far back he nearly tips it over. “That’s ‘cause you poured half the bar’s ale on it, dumbass.”

Neither of them notice that I’m not playing along.

Elias peeks at me from under his lashes, the snark and sloth still wound in his gaze, but even he notices something’s off. He’s trying not to stare too long, and I know it’s because I make him nervous when I get like this.

Because when I get quiet, something usually burns.

Riven clears his throat beside me, like he’s trying to cut the tension without saying a word. But the only thing rattling in my head is the phantom weight of all the women who came before me.

I scrape my spoon against the plate again, just for the sound.

The tavern’s door creaks as Ambrose and Caspian finally drift in, the morning’s weak light slashing across their faces like the day is trying to cut them open. Ambrose stalks past without so much as a glance, cool as ever, but Caspian’s gaze snags on me—like he’s searching, assessing, maybe wondering if I’ve come undone yet. I watch the way his smile barely curves, like it costs him something to offer it to me.

Caspian sits across from me, quiet in a way that isn’t loud. His eyes are a shade darker today, like whatever nightmares Branwen poured into him last night still cling behind them, even if he won’t let them show.

"Morning," he says, voice low and rough, like it's been scraped against the inside of his throat.

"You're late," I murmur, my voice steadier than I feel. "I was starting to think you’d defected to the other side."

His lips quirk just slightly, barely there. "And leave you with these idiots? Never."

He doesn’t say he’s okay, because he isn’t. But he’s here. Sitting across from me like the world hasn’t split him open and poured his insides out over and over again. Like he isn’t dragging every shard of himself to the table because I asked.

Ambrose drops into the seat beside him, and the chair groans beneath him like it resents his existence. He doesn’t look at me, but I can feel the weight of him anyway—he’s always there, coiled like a storm I can’t predict, like a blade I don’t know when will cut.

It should be Branwen at the forefront of my mind. It should be the cathedral waiting past the hills, the inevitable confrontation with the ex that ruined two of the men at this table. The woman who taught Riven how to sharpen himself into a weapon and hollow out his love. The woman who shattered Caspian and left him bleeding in ways no magic can mend.

But it’s not. It's this place. The way it settles under my skin like I’ve walked these streets before, like my bones remember a death I haven’t died yet.

This place is for us.

For the Sins.

I can feel it—threaded in the seams of the tavern walls, humming beneath the earth like a secret waiting to crack open. No one has to tell me. I know. When I die, this is where I’ll rot. Another reject of the Sins. Another scar stitched into the fabric of whatever power made us.

I force myself to breathe past the thought, to look up and check Caspian again, the shadows under his eyes, the curve of his mouth when he catches me watching him.

"You okay?" I ask quietly, a question meant only for him, buried beneath the weight of the others around us.

His gaze flickers, softens. "I’m okay enough," he answers, and somehow that’s worse than if he’d lied.

I nod, because what else can I do? I can’t fix him. I can’t take away what Branwen did to him. But I can sit here, across from him, and let him see me looking. I reach for my mug, sip at the bitter tea like it’ll wash the taste of this place out of my mouth. It won’t.

Ambrose, without looking, mutters, "If you’re done brooding, we’ve got a cathedral to burn."

His voice cuts through me like a wire pulled tight, slicing me out of my head and back into the mess of this morning. But he’s not wrong.

Branwen is waiting.

And maybe the ghosts, too.

The mug feels heavier in my hand than it should. The heat's long gone, but I hold it like it’ll anchor me to this table, to these boys who don’t even realize they’re all I want and everything I’m terrified of losing.

I stare at the door like it’s a portal to the past, waiting for a ghost in the shape of a beautiful woman to waltz in and unravel everything I’ve built. My stomach knots tighter the longer I sit here, thinking of how many Sin Binders have walked these streets before me—how many of them were loved, cherished, ruined, and left behind by the men sitting at this table.

The more I sit here, the louder it gets in my head. Every ugly, sharp-edged thought that Branwen planted there. Every whisper that tells me I wasn’t the first. That maybe I won’t be the last.

I rake my teeth over my bottom lip, swallowing it down like I’ve been trained to do. Like I haven’t spent my entire life being told I wasn’t enough.

Across from me, Caspian watches me too closely, and it’s only when his knee knocks against mine beneath the table that I realize how obvious I’m being.

"Stop looking like the world’s ending," he murmurs, voice pitched low so only I can hear it over the scrape of chairs and clatter of tankards. "You already lived through it."

I shake my head, a laugh caught in my throat but too bitter to come out. "Doesn’t feel like it."

Caspian’s mouth twists, like he wants to argue but knows better. Instead, he leans in, the shadows under his eyes softer today, but no less haunted. "We get Lucien and Orin. We burn this place down. We go home."

My gaze snaps to his, sharp and sharp-edged, and something in his expression gentles. I know what he’s not saying—the longer we stay here, the more we risk seeing the sins that came before me. The ghosts of the ones they mourned, the ones they loved before they ever knew my name. And if Branwen has anything to do with it, she’ll make damn sure I run into every single one.

"Home," I echo, even though it feels like a lie on my tongue.

Riven shifts beside me like he can hear my thoughts, even if I know I’ve kept the bond closed off this morning, not wanting him to feel how tangled I am. He thinks it’s Branwen that’s eating at me, and maybe part of it is. But not all. Not most.

The door creaks behind me. My spine locks straight, breath caught, but it’s just a group of villagers filing in, their chatter harmless, familiar. Still, my pulse won’t settle.

Elias scowling as Silas loudly announces that Elias cries in his sleep like a wet cat. It should be funny. It should drag me out of this pit, the way Silas always does when he’s being ridiculous, and Elias can’t help but snap back with something equally unhinged.

But not even Silas’ chaos can untangle the knot inside me.

Because this place is a graveyard, and I can’t stop thinking that it was made for us.

Made for me.

And I don’t want to stay long enough to prove it.

Caspian’s voice curls inside me like a thread, tugging soft and quiet against the part of me I always leave open for him. What’s wrong, darling?

It’s not a demand. Not even a question, really. He never pushes. Never tries to unravel me without permission, not like the others. Caspian has learned how to wait, how to ask instead of pry.

So I let myself lean into the bond, let the pulse of his warmth slip past the jagged parts of me this place keeps slicing open.

It’s stupid, I murmur back, staring down at my half-eaten breakfast like the smear of jam across the plate might swallow me whole.

Caspian hums gently in my head. , I’m the Sin of Lust. I’ve made a life out of stupid.

That earns the smallest twitch of a smile from me, even though my throat feels tight. I breathe out slow, eyes flicking up to where he’s watching me without looking like he is—his knuckles drumming lazily on the table, head tipped toward Riven like he’s listening, but every inch of him angled toward me.

It’s not Branwen, I admit, dragging the words out like they weigh something. I know everyone thinks it is. But it’s not her.

He doesn’t respond immediately, just lets me keep going. And because it’s Caspian, I do.

It’s this place. It’s what my copy said—the Sin Binders who died. Who ended up here. I pause, rolling the thought over like glass in my mouth before spitting it out. I can’t stop wondering how many of them were important to you. Or to the others. How many were loved.

The bond goes quiet for a second too long. Then I feel him, sharp and tender all at once, like a hand cupping my jaw. You think we’d trade you for a ghost?

I think I was never supposed to last long enough to be more than one.

The chair across from me shifts, wood scraping over stone, and Caspian folds himself into the space without asking. He leans forward like he’s about to tell me a secret, eyes molten dark, his voice a soft knife.

"You know what’s funny, darling?" He taps two fingers against the table between us. "Every Sin Binder I’ve ever touched, I used them to keep the emptiness at bay. Let them fill the cracks until I got bored or they shattered. But you—" His fingers drift higher, grazing the edge of my hand. "You’re the only one who’s ever made me want to be full."

The bond flares, hot and electric, threading tight between us.

He tilts his head, the hint of a grin playing at the corner of his mouth. "So no, there’s no one in this hellhole I’d rather see than you."

My breath shudders out, everything in me coiling too tight, too fragile. I want to believe him. Want to take the weight of it and shove it somewhere deep so I can focus on Branwen, on Lucien, on the war waiting outside these walls.

But his honesty guts me. Because Caspian Vale has never been anyone’s anchor. And now I think he might be mine. I swallow hard and lean in just enough to brush my knee against his under the table.

"Thank you," I whisper, because I don’t know how else to say that I see him. That I’ll never leave him behind.

Riven’s voice cuts across the table before Caspian can answer, his tone sharp, all business. "We leave in an hour."

Caspian’s smile sharpens as he leans back, but his gaze stays on me like a tether. "Good," he murmurs. "Time to tear this place apart."

Silas’ voice cuts through the weight pressing on my shoulders like a blade laced in sugar and stupidity.

“If you don’t smile in the next ten seconds, darling, I swear to the Gods and whatever back-alley demons are listening, I’m gonna set something on fire. And don’t think I won’t. I’ve got matches and bad ideas.”

I lift my gaze from the cold remnants of breakfast, catching him leaning half over the table, elbows splayed, chin propped in his palm like he’s lounging at a picnic instead of readying for war. His grin is all teeth, too wide, too bright. Elias slouches beside him, already rolling his eyes and muttering something about pyromaniac idiots under his breath.

But Silas doesn’t blink. He stares at me like he can see straight through the careful quiet I’ve built around myself this morning. Like he knows the black coil of dread winding tighter in my chest has nothing to do with Branwen, and everything to do with the ghosts clawing at the back of my skull.

I arch a brow, fighting the tug of a smile despite myself. “What are you going to light on fire? The tavern?”

“Maybe.”

Silas shrugs, unrepentant. “Maybe Ambrose’s coat. Maybe Elias’ dignity, though there’s not much left of it.”

Elias flips him off without looking up, and Silas grins wider, like he’s won something.

My smile flickers at the edges, but the ache in my throat doesn’t ease. I drag a finger around the rim of my cup, circling it over and over. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m your ridiculous,”

Silas volleys back, voice dipping lower, softer. “And you love me for it.”

He’s right. And he knows it.

The bond between us pulses warm and steady, the only thing in this place that feels solid under my feet. I lean into it, let it wrap around me like armor even as the pit in my stomach churns.

Silas taps his fingers against the wood, voice dropping into a mock whisper. “If you don’t smile by the time we leave, , I will find the prettiest, most obnoxious thing in this godsdamned realm and light it up like a festival.”

He pauses, then leans forward conspiratorially. “And if that doesn’t work… I’ll make Elias sing.”

Elias looks up, deadpan. “I already did last night.”

Silas winks. “Exactly.”

This time, I do smile. A small, reluctant curve of my lips that Silas catches like a prize, victorious and unrelenting.

But beneath it, the weight doesn’t ease. Because I know what’s waiting for us outside these walls. And this might be the last time any of us laugh like this.