Page 31 of The Sin Binder's (The Seven Sins Academy #4)

I feel her trying to keep her mind wrapped tight like a goddamned vault. It grates at me, the way she shuts me out when she thinks she’s protecting me. Like I haven’t already drowned in every version of her wreckage and come up gasping for more.

She walks stiff, too quiet, her eyes darting over her shoulder like she's counting shadows. And it's not Branwen that’s got her neck craning. Not the weight of the fight ahead. It’s something else entirely, and I can taste it in the bond—like copper and smoke, like she's holding something sharp between her teeth.

I let myself in slow, careful, a knock on the heavy door she’s slammed between us.

One sec, she answers, her voice inside my head clipped, distracted.

I grind my teeth. That’s not good enough.

Luna, I press harder, pacing just behind her, pretending not to watch every fidget, every false smile she throws at Silas and Elias bickering like fools ahead of us. What the fuck is your deal? Talk to me.

Her mental sigh breezes through me like she’s trying to keep it casual, but it’s threaded with something brittle. It’s nothing. I’m fine.

Bullshit, I growl down the bond, stepping a little closer so I can reach out, fingers grazing the small of her back like I need to physically tether her. You're checking the woods like something’s coming for you. You’ve barely said a word all morning. And don’t feed me that fine lie, I’m not Elias—you can’t distract me with a snarky joke and your smile.

She’s quiet long enough I almost think she’ll slam the door shut again. Then, finally, her voice threads through mine, soft and sharp at once.

It’s this place. It’s not just Branwen, it’s… everything here feels like it’s crawling under my skin. Like it knows me.

Luna. I slow my stride so we’re almost walking hip to hip now. What does that mean?

She exhales, the sound brushing the inside of my skull like smoke curling around a blade. The clone—the one Silas summoned in the circle. She said this place is where Sin Binders go when they die. And I keep thinking... what if the ones who came before me are here? What if they’re watching?

I glance at her from the corner of my eye, the line of her jaw tight, her lips pinched like she’s trying to swallow down her own thoughts.

You think they’ll come for us? I ask, voice quieter now, threading carefully beneath the weight in her chest. That one of us will look at them and wish they never lost them?

No, she answers instantly, too fast. Then slower, softer: I think I’ll look at them and wonder why I’m here at all.

That’s the knife of it—the thing she’s been bleeding out quietly beside us all morning. I could tear this realm in half for her, and it wouldn’t fix that.

I stop, reaching out and curling my fingers around her wrist, forcing her to look at me.

You don’t end up here, Luna. You rewrite what this place even means. Those other binders? They were never you. And none of us are ever going to want anyone but you.

Her throat bobs, her pulse hammering against my grip. But she doesn’t pull away. She never does.

You keep looking back like something’s going to take us from you, I murmur, voice pitched low and vicious. But nothing’s ever going to pry me from you. Let them crawl out of these woods if they want. Let them try.

Her eyes flicker like I’ve just handed her a blade.

You mean that? she asks, not as a test—but because she needs to hear it.

Every godsdamned word, I swear, letting her feel it pulse hot and real down the bond.

Her walls drop, just a fraction.

Okay, she says finally, the word delicate as glass.

She says okay and it lingers—lodged in my chest like a blade turned sideways. That one fucking word, soft as it is, burns hotter than any scream.

I keep my grip on her wrist, but I don’t squeeze. I just hold, grounding her—and maybe myself—because she’s not the only one fraying. Every part of me is coiled tight, strung like a weapon too long left in the sun. If she knew the kind of thoughts running through my head, the weight of fury itching just beneath my skin, she’d shove me away for her own safety.

Because I get it now.

I get what she must be thinking. What it must feel like—to walk through a place haunted by your lover’s past. Where ghosts don’t whisper—they leer. They wait. They might not be real, but the feeling is, and it’s chewing her alive.

And then my own mind flips the fucking switch.

Because if the roles were reversed—if I were the one walking through a place thick with her past… fuck. I wouldn't survive it. Not like she is. Not with this quiet dignity, this haunted grace.

She has exes. Lovers.

The thought cuts through me like acid through silk. I know she was with others before me—before us—but knowing it and being reminded of it in this godsdamned place, where sin stains the dirt and old magic remembers too well? It claws at me, mean and jealous and mine.

I shove the thought down so hard my jaw aches. She doesn’t need my possessiveness right now. Doesn’t need the sharp side of me flaring because I can’t handle the idea of anyone else’s hands having ever touched her.

So I keep walking, beside her, my steps deliberately steady. Even when inside, everything’s unraveling. She doesn't speak again. But her hand doesn’t leave mine.

And that’s enough.

We hit the edge of the trees where the path narrows, shadow curling like smoke off the cobblestones ahead. The cathedral looms distant beyond it, half-veiled in mist, like it’s holding its breath, waiting for us to arrive.

Behind us, the others start to catch up—Silas loud, Elias snarking, Caspian quieter than usual. But none of them matter right now.

Just her.

Just the way she finally glances over at me, her expression still tight—but something in it less hollow now. Like I pulled her back from whatever cliff she was dancing too close to.

I lean down, murmur low enough that only she can hear me.

"You ever get that look in your eyes again," I say, "and I will not ask. I will drag it out of you. You hear me?"

She nods, solemn. And then—then—the ghost of a real smile flickers across her lips. It’s enough to make my rage settle, just barely. Enough to make me feel like maybe we’ll survive what comes next.

Silas’s screech cuts through the hush of the path like a blade, sharp enough to make the birds scatter from the low-hung branches overhead. My head jerks toward the sound on instinct, because with Silas, you never know if he’s actually being murdered or just being himself.

He's got a stick clutched in both hands like it’s some legendary weapon, sweat-damp curls sticking to his forehead, eyes wild and gleaming. And Elias—godsdamned Elias—is half-heartedly swinging his own branch, a look of eternal suffering stamped across his face like it’s physically paining him to entertain this.

For every lazy step Elias takes, Silas takes ten. Darting, ducking, weaving like he’s dancing around a battlefield no one else can see. He flips backward, almost trips over his own feet, then twists back around and lunges at Elias with a war cry that rattles the leaves.

"Come on, Dain!" Silas shouts, voice too loud for how early it is, "Swing like you mean it! Put your whole back into it, coward!"

Elias doesn’t even blink. He shifts the stick between two fingers and deadpans, "I will shove this down your throat and call it a sword swallow, Veyd."

Luna snorts beside me. I can feel it rather than hear it, the tug of her lips, the barest roll of amusement through our bond. It’s quieter now—that haunted edge tucked away—but I don’t loosen my hold on her wrist. I won’t. Not until I know it’s really gone.

Silas spins dramatically, then drops to his knees like he’s been mortally wounded when Elias finally, lazily taps his shoulder. "Ahhh! You’ve bested me, you bastard. I die. Tragically. Beautifully."

He collapses backward into the dirt like some wilted, chaotic prince, arms spread wide, grin feral.

"You’re an idiot," I mutter under my breath, and Luna breathes out a quiet, soft laugh like she can’t help it.

Elias glances our way, raising a brow. "You’re just mad we didn’t ask you to join."

"You know why," I growl. "Because I’d actually knock both your asses into the dirt."

Silas lifts a hand from the ground, still flat on his back, grinning up at the gray sky. "That’s the point, Kain. You need to loosen up. You’re wound tighter than Elias’s—"

"Finish that sentence, Veyd," Elias cuts in, pointing his stick at him, "and I will time-dilate your entire existence into misery."

Ambrose fucking barrel rolls.

I blink. Once. Twice.

And there he is—coat flaring like wings, silver hair catching the light in a streak of arrogant defiance—as he tumbles across the dirt path and pops up like he’s just auditioned for the role of “Dramatic Bastard #1.”

His grin is sharp, self-satisfied. Not the cold one that cuts, but something else. Something younger. A shadow of what he must’ve been before this world pressed in on him like a blade to the throat.

He lands next to Elias and Silas like he planned it, like this wasn’t the result of Silas yelling, "Bet you won’t roll like a hero, you cryptic lord of doom!"

“Payback,”

Ambrose says, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulder, “is a dramatic bitch.”

Silas lets out a howl so loud it startles birds into flight. “You absolute madman—was that a three-point landing?! Do it again! Do it with a flip! I’ll give you gold. Real gold. Ambrose! Come back!”

But Ambrose is already striding past him with that casual, bone-deep elegance like he didn’t just defy every expectation we’ve been hanging off his shoulders for the last year. He walks past Luna—who’s frozen mid-step, lips parted in what looks suspiciously like awe—and his hand brushes hers. Not a touch, just a ghost of one. Intentional. Calculated. Barely there.

Her eyes narrow, cheeks flushed. I don’t miss that either.

Neither does Ambrose. The bastard doesn’t even look back, just smirks to himself like he’s solved a puzzle none of us knew existed.

“Okay, what the actual fuck was that,”

Elias mutters as he watches him go. “Did he just—did Ambrose just out-cringe Silas?”

“Impossible,”

Silas says, hands on his hips. “I’m the reigning champion of unhinged flirtation.”

“Debatable,”

Elias answers dryly. “You nearly proposed to a sentient wardrobe once.”

“It was haunted, Elias. And hot.”

I’m not listening to them anymore. Not really. My focus is on Ambrose, who now stands ahead of the group, arms crossed, surveying the stretch of forest ahead like he owns it. Maybe he does, in whatever way a man like him claims ownership of silence, of mystery, of inevitability.

But that—that—laugh? That wasn’t inevitable. That was unexpected. Unshackled.

I glance at Luna. She’s still watching him. And I don’t like the way her eyes have gone soft.

The ground crunches under my boots as I move up beside her, close enough to shoulder into her gently, grounding her back to me. To us.

She looks up, and her lips twitch.

“Did he just—?”

“Yes,”

I mutter. “Don’t talk about it.”

She leans into my side anyway. Not fully. Just enough for me to feel it in my ribs. I think she does it to calm me. I think it works.

Ahead, Ambrose tilts his head, smirking like he knows it worked.

And gods help me—I don’t barrel roll, but I almost want to.

Silas screams like he’s been set on fire—which, knowing him, might still be on the table—and charges Ambrose with a stick held high like he’s storming a battlefield, not a dirt trail in the middle of nowhere.

“FOR HONOR! FOR GLORY! FOR WHATEVER THE HELL THIS IS!”

Ambrose doesn’t even blink. He bends, smooth as anything, and picks up a stick of his own—longer, slightly curved, unnecessarily elegant for a piece of tree limb—and raises it like he’s fencing in a ballroom instead of a goddamn field.

“I warned you last time,”

Ambrose mutters, twirling it with ridiculous precision, “I do not lose to idiots.”

Silas howls and lunges. Ambrose parries. With flourish.

The sticks clash with a satisfying crack, and Silas spins, overcorrects, and Ambrose smacks him on the ass with the tip of his stick like he’s a fucking fencing instructor punishing poor posture.

“En garde, peasant.”

“Oh you bastard—”

Silas growls, tripping over a root and somehow turning it into a dive-roll that lands him behind Ambrose. “You cheat with class, you evil, beautiful spreadsheet of a man!”

Elias finally ambles in, dragging a broken branch that looks more like driftwood than a weapon. “Alright, alright, if someone’s going to die today, it better be me,”

he says, deadpan. “This stick? This stick is named Regret. It represents my life choices.”

Silas swings wildly. Ambrose blocks with the ease of a man used to handling chaos.

“Regret is a terrible name,”

Ambrose says, sidestepping a lunge. “It’s too on the nose for you.”

“I was going to call it ‘My Future,’ but then I remembered it’s already broken,”

Elias deadpans.

Ambrose swings. Silas ducks. Elias blocks it with Regret and immediately yelps as the branch splinters in his hand.

“I’VE BEEN BETRAYED!”

Elias yells, tossing the remains and clutching his chest. “My weapon has turned against me. Like everyone I’ve ever loved.”

“You’re so dramatic,”

Ambrose mutters, breathless now, laughing quietly as he spins to knock Silas’s stick from his hand—only for Silas to whip out another stick from his coat like he’s been waiting for this exact moment his whole life.

“Double wield, baby!”

Ambrose freezes. “You brought backup sticks?”

Silas beams. “You think I walk into chaos with just one stick? Amateur hour.”

Elias has now found a rock and is brandishing it like a dagger. “Fear me,”

he says, voice hoarse, “I have a pebble and nothing to lose.”

And for a moment—all three of them are locked in this ridiculous, lopsided triangle of chaos: Ambrose wielding grace like a weapon, Silas practically vibrating with energy, Elias somehow lethally pathetic. It’s a mess of flailing limbs, clashing sticks, dramatic battle cries, and one sharp yelp as Silas tries to leap over Ambrose and lands face-first in the grass.

Ambrose glances at Elias.

“You’re next.”

“I was never first,”

Elias says, backing away. “I’m a pacifist now. I only fight with sarcasm and low blood sugar.”

Ambrose lunges anyway. Elias bolts.

“COWARD!”

Silas roars from the ground, eating dirt.

“Absolutely,”

Elias calls over his shoulder, “and proud of it.”

Luna’s voice cuts through the chaos like a blade, sharp and reckless. “Fuck it.”

Before I can process, she’s snatching a stick off the ground like she’s been waiting her entire life for this exact moment. She doesn’t hesitate—she lunges, wild and grinning, charging straight at the three idiots tearing up the field.

The second she moves, all of them scatter.

Silas yelps, backpedaling so fast he nearly falls over his own feet. “She’s got a weapon! She's got a weapon, and she’s not emotionally stable!”

Ambrose ducks under her swing with infuriating grace, smirking like he’s dodging arrows at court. “You don’t want to hit me, darling,”

he calls over his shoulder, voice edged in something sweeter, looser than usual. “I’m too pretty.”

Elias, predictably, is the worst. He stumbles backward, hands up, stick long forgotten in the grass. “I’ve made mistakes, beautiful! So many mistakes—but I bruise easy!”

Luna’s laugh bubbles up like something feral and free as she swings wide, not even trying to connect, but making every pass close enough to make them flinch. She’s not trying to win. She’s trying to chase them.

And fuck, they let her.

Every one of them ducks and pivots around her, their sticks lowered like some unspoken agreement passed between them. None of them even pretend to strike back. They just move around her, like she’s the center of their world and they orbit her willingly.

Ambrose gives her too much space, deliberately stepping wide of her swing, and Silas darts behind her, chanting, “You’re so scary, baby, you’re so mean to us, we like it—keep going!”

Elias ducks beside me, panting, eyes wide with something almost fond. “She’s going to kill us,”

he mutters, like it’s the best thing that’s happened to him all week.

Luna spins, breathless now, hair loose around her face, cheeks flushed, and when she looks at me—fuck, it hits me square in the chest.

She’s glowing.

The hollow weight that’s been dragging her shoulders for days is gone, burnt off by the sheer act of them letting her chase them like this.

I fold my arms across my chest, shaking my head as she barrels after Silas again, her laughter cracking the air like thunder.

“She’s gonna wear you all out,”

I call after them.

Elias tosses me a grin over his shoulder. “That’s the goal.”

Silas yells something obscene and disappears into the trees, Luna right behind him, Ambrose swearing quietly as he jogs to follow.

And I stand there, pulse thrumming, knowing damn well—this is how we keep her whole. By letting her hunt us. By letting her win.