Page 34 of The Sin Binder's (The Seven Sins Academy #4)

I never liked this bitch. Not the first time she slithered out of the darkness, draped in grief like it made her interesting. Not the second, when she dressed her venom in soft words and promises she never meant to keep. And sure as hell not now, when she’s perched on that throne like a queen of corpses, her smile hollow and her eyes dead.

Branwen always talked like she was chosen. Like the gods reached down and plucked her from the gutter and handed her to us. A gift.

She wasn’t a gift.

She’s the rot beneath the foundation. A leech that latched on when we were still bleeding from what we lost, too fucking arrogant to see she was chewing through the bone.

And now she’s here, holding Lucien and Orin like puppets, their strings wound tight around her fingers, and I can feel it—how much of them is missing. How much she’s carved out to keep herself alive.

The cathedral smells like dust and death and the sharp bite of magic that’s rotted too long in one place. It’s not a place for the living, but we’ve always been half-dead anyway. The pillars hum behind her like a heartbeat, and I know, the way I always know, that if I slow time now, even for a second, Orin will see it.

He’ll feel it. And he’ll drain me dry, with that quiet, sad look in his eyes like he’s sorry for it.

That’s what Branwen does. She makes you bleed yourself for her.

So I keep still.

I grind my molars and dig my nails into my palms, watching, calculating, because that’s all I can do right now. Riven’s practically vibrating beside me, Silas is rocking on the balls of his feet like he’s two seconds from throwing himself at her throne and daring her to tear him apart.

And Luna—

Fuck.

I glance at her out of the corner of my eye, the way I always do when I’m pretending not to. She’s too calm. Too still. Like she’s waiting to burn this place down.

And I want her to. I want her to take this entire cathedral and raze it to ash and salt the earth, and I want to watch her do it.

But I can’t give her that opening yet. Because Orin’s veins are still pulsing in rhythm with that damn pillar and Lucien is watching us like a man trapped behind glass, and Branwen—

Branwen is smiling at me.

Like she knows.

“Still brooding, ?”

she purrs, voice sticky sweet, dripping with condescension. “You always did wear your misery well.”

I tilt my head, roll my shoulders like I’m bored out of my mind, even as my fingers twitch. "You talk too much, Branwen. It’s why no one ever wanted to fuck you."

Her smile slips for a fraction of a second, and I savor it.

But then she laughs, low and breathy and unhinged. "Oh darling," she croons. "You think I ever wanted you?"

She’s still trying to pull the strings. Still playing like she has any cards left.

"You’ve made your move," I say flatly. "And you’re running out of time."

She looks at me, and I know—she knows exactly how literal that is.

Her gaze flicks past me, past all of us, to the pillar behind her, and then back to me. "Time won’t save you here, ."

I flash her a smile, all teeth and venom. "It doesn’t have to."

And when she looks away, when she turns her focus to Luna like she’s trying to bait her into something, I flick my fingers once. Just once. Time ripples at the edges of the cathedral. Not enough to move. But enough to remind her that if she thinks she’s playing with shadows—

She forgot who we are.

Silas calls it “The Silas Spectacular”—because of course he does. The name’s obnoxious, ridiculous, and entirely him, but I’ll be damned if it isn’t brilliant.

I glance at him, meet those wild, unhinged green eyes for a heartbeat, and he winks, his fingers flicking like he’s casting a spell, even though it’s me who handles the magic. That’s how it’s always been with us—I pull the threads, and Silas sets the world on fire.

The second he snaps his fingers, the cathedral groans like it knows what's coming. Shadows peel off the walls, stretching and folding into shapes that shouldn’t exist. Dozens of Silas’s—some grinning, some sneering, one flipping off Branwen’s throne like he’s rehearsed it.

They’re everywhere.

Climbing the ruined archways, sprawled in the rafters, hanging upside down like deranged bats, perched on crumbling statues with devil-may-care smiles. Each one an echo of chaos wrapped in flesh.

And Branwen?

Her smile falters.

Good.

I dial the seconds back, the cathedral stretching thin around us. The edges of reality slow, just enough for us—not enough for Orin and Lucien to feel it, but enough to make her question her grip.

Her power flickers, a pulse at the corner of my vision.

Silas’s illusions flood the space, laughing, heckling, leaning in close to whisper sweet, obscene nonsense in Branwen’s ear. One drops from the ceiling and lands next to her throne, grinning like a lunatic, “Tell me, love, is this your kink? Thrones and lies and sad little boys?”

Her lips curl back, but she doesn’t speak. She can’t. She’s trying to figure out which Silas is real, which threat is real, and by the time she figures it out, it’ll be too late.

I keep my power wrapped close, feeding the illusion, letting it bleed through every inch of stone and shadow. The pillar behind her flickers too—a crack, subtle but there, like the magic holding this whole place together can feel us unraveling it.

Silas’s real body darts through the crowd of himself, moving fast, deliberate, like a dagger slicing through fabric. And I move with him, a breath behind, slowing time just enough so no one can catch us—not Orin, not Lucien, not even Branwen.

We’ve done this before. Not here, not like this—but in the alleyways of Calverin, in the back alleys of Seven Sins, when everything was a game and we hadn’t yet known how high the stakes would get.

The world tilts around us, the hum of the pillar growing louder, Branwen’s smile stretched too thin, too brittle. And when I catch her looking, hunting, I flash her a grin that’s all blade and venom.

“You always underestimated the two of us,”

I murmur across the space, my voice a quiet, lethal thing. “That was your first mistake.”

One of Silas’s copies flips her off again and cartwheels toward the pillar.

And this time?

She looks scared.

The moment the first Silas illusion slips too close to the pillar, Orin’s head snaps up like a hound catching scent. His eyes flash—too dark, too hollow, a void swallowing the man we once knew.

And then he moves. Faster than he should.

The first clone disintegrates before it even breathes on the pillar. A crackling sound, like bone fracturing under too much pressure, and the illusion implodes inward, sucked into Orin’s outstretched hand.

Another clone lunges, cocky, grinning.

Orin doesn’t even blink. His veins, those black vines snaking beneath his skin, pulse once—hungry—and the copy crumbles, devoured whole.

It’s not magic. It’s consumption. Like he’s drinking them down, draining the spark out of every image until there’s nothing left but dust and the faint, bitter taste of ash.

Silas freezes beside me, his real body, the corner of his grin faltering. "That’s not new," he mutters, almost admiring. Almost terrified.

I don’t have the luxury of watching.

Because Lucien moves next.

Quiet as a breath, deadly as a blade. He slams into Riven before I can even call out, a blur of motion slicing between the flickering shadows. No weapon—he doesn’t need one. He’s always been sharper than steel, faster than the rest of us when it mattered.

The room erupts.

I push time sideways, slowing everything within reach—Branwen’s cold smile twisting in slow-motion, Orin’s shadows unfurling like a net across the cathedral floor, Silas’s chaos magic fracturing under Orin’s hunger. The cathedral itself groans like it’s being torn in half.

But it’s not enough.

I can’t slow them.

Not Orin.

Not Lucien.

Not when they’re bonded like this, when Branwen’s leash is coiled so tight around their throats it’s become a noose.

Silas shouts something unintelligible, launching himself toward Lucien, reckless and wild, swinging at him with every ounce of rage he’s got, but Lucien sidesteps him like he’s nothing, like he’s a child flailing.

Caspian cuts toward Orin, slipping past the shadows, too smooth, too fast. He’s not fighting to win—he’s trying to get to the pillar.

And me?

I do what I do best. I slow everything. And I aim myself at Orin, because he’s the key, the one tearing Silas’s copies apart like playthings, the one standing between us and the end of this nightmare.

I reach him just as his hand snaps out to crush another Silas illusion—and I slam into him, my body colliding with his, knocking us both to the floor in a chaos of limbs and snarled curses.

"Hi, Orin," I mutter, breathless, snarling the words in his ear as I pin him. "Miss me?"

His eyes flare with something monstrous, something not Orin.

And I know I have seconds before he drains me too.

But seconds?

Are all I need.

Caspian’s whips crack through the air like thunder snapping a leash. I don’t think I’ve seen him like this in weeks. Since Luna. Since she peeled him off the floor of whatever black hole Branwen dragged him into and made him feel wanted again. Not used. Not devoured. Wanted.

Now? He looks feral.

Not the flirt. Not the tease. Not Lust with a purr and a wink. No. This is Lust as weapon. Lust as punishment. He’s not here to seduce—he’s here to destroy.

And he’s aiming straight for Branwen.

Caspian’s whip snaps around one of the larger support beams and yanks him forward, vaulting him over two of Silas’ illusions and into the center of the cathedral. The floor shudders when he lands. He doesn’t hesitate. The whips fly again, carving through shadows and illusion, clearing a path straight to the dais where Branwen watches.

And still.

Still.

She smiles. Like she wants him to come closer.

But she didn’t count on Ambrose being the one beside him.

Ambrose doesn’t bother with weapons. He never does. His magic is precision. A curse folded into a thought. A trap hidden in the edge of a syllable. He lifts his hand, murmurs something beneath his breath—and Branwen stumbles.

Not much.

Just a half-step.

But it’s enough.

It’s enough for Caspian to slam his whip into the base of her throne, shattering the marble. The whole platform groans under the pressure. She rises, barefoot, blood-slick on the floor beneath her, and finally—finally—she stops smiling.

Back near the pillar, I choke on my own power.

Orin’s still draining me. My veins burn. My bones ache. Every second I stretch time is another part of me unraveling—but I hold it. I hold him there. Because I see it.

Silas.

The real Silas, weaving through his copies like a fucking ghost, mouth drawn, eyes not laughing for once.

He’s close. Closer than any of us have gotten.

All he needs is—One second.

Caspian lashes again. Ambrose says something cruel and impossible and Branwen screams.

And Silas runs. Straight for the pillar.

Lucien plows into Silas like a freight train made of grief and blood loyalty.

I see it too late to warn him—too wrapped up holding time, watching Caspian crack Branwen’s throne open like a ribcage. My power buckles as Lucien launches himself across the cathedral. One second Silas is charging for the pillar, grin wide, stupid-ass spell name probably forming on his lips. The next—

He’s airborne. Flung backward, body twisting midair like a ragdoll possessed. He hits the ground in a graceless sprawl, limbs splayed, groaning—but I hear the laugh under it.

Of course he laughs.

“Bro,”

Silas wheezes, flat on his back as Lucien looms over him, one hand already glowing with that grotesque gray light Branwen feeds them with. “Consent. You gotta buy me dinner first if you’re gonna throw me down like that.”

Lucien doesn’t smile. Doesn’t flinch. Just raises his hand higher like he’s about to crack Silas open like a fucking egg.

And Silas—

Silas fucking cackles.

“Is this foreplay?”

he gasps, rolling to the side just as Lucien’s magic hits the stone, shattering it with a sound like a scream. “You are into me. Shit, don’t tell Luna. Or do. Maybe we can all—”

Another blast. Silas rolls again, flings a clone forward, then another, three, four, five—blurring around Lucien in a flurry of long limbs and mad laughter.

“You can’t drain me if you don’t know which one’s me!”

he howls. “Or can you? Fuck, can you? Because that would suck, bro.”

Lucien closes his eyes, brow furrowed—draining. I feel it ripple through the room like a slow exhale of death. One by one, the clones drop.

But Silas doesn’t stop. He’s already up, running straight at Lucien again—unarmed, unhinged, absolutely Silas.

Lucien grabs him by the throat mid-sprint.

And still, he grins.

“Choke me harder, Daddy,”

Silas whispers. “I dare you.”

Lucien falters. Just a second.

But that’s all Silas needs. He spits in Lucien’s face, yanks back, kicks him square in the gut and bolts past. Not toward the pillar now—no. Toward Orin.

“Tag out, ,”

Silas yells, ducking a swipe of magic. “I’ve got the pretty one!”

I drop the time dilation with a gasp, stumbling back as everything slams into full motion again.

Chaos.

Branwen screaming spells in a language older than dust. Caspian’s whips carving arcs through the air. Ambrose laughing like the monster he is, slicing magic into threads. And Silas?

Silas chasing Orin with nothing but nerve, a shitty grin, and a new spell name on his lips.

“Operation—I’m Gonna Kick Your Soul In The Dick! Commencing!”

Gods help us all.

Silas has never been subtle a day in his life. He’s a whirlwind of sharp elbows and worse ideas, and right now, he’s a blur across the cathedral floor, weaving between falling stone and spells like he’s invincible.

Which he’s not.

I see Orin’s magic spear toward him, gray tendrils slick and greedy, ready to drag Silas down. And because I know how this works, I wait—counting under my breath—one, two—

There it is. Silas flicks his fingers at me, tongue poking between his teeth like he’s about to say something obscene. The signal.

Showtime.

I sigh, because it’s always me. Always.

“Operation Time-Sexy-Murder-Go is a go,”

I mutter, and twist time around us like a ribbon.

The cathedral slows—the fall of shattered glass caught mid-air, Branwen’s snarl pulling like sap through molasses, Lucien’s fists dragging against the current like he’s punching underwater. Only Silas and I move at normal speed.

And that’s when the idiot grins, bare teeth and wild eyes, like we’ve been waiting centuries for this one moment.

“We rehearsed this,”

he pants, sidling up to me, elbow knocking against mine like we’re on a fucking date. “You ready?”

“No,”

I reply dryly, flicking my fingers to the rhythm we practiced weeks ago while drunk in the academy courtyard. “But I’m prettier than you, so let’s go.”

Silas spins, ducking beneath Orin’s sluggishly swinging arm, and I step behind him like a shadow.

We move together. I slow time for everyone but us, wrapping it tighter, compressing the second like I’m crushing a star in my fist. Silas darts left, right, and then springs up—vaulting off a pew like a lunatic.

He lands on Orin’s shoulders.

“Hey, handsome!”

Silas sings, wrapping his legs around Orin’s neck like he’s riding him. “Miss me?”

Before Orin can react—because in my little pocket of warped time, he’s moving at a snail’s pace—I slam into his side, the weight of years pressing through me as I shove the entire world faster around us, spinning it into sharpness.

Silas flips backward off Orin’s shoulders, kicking him square in the face.

“Synchronized chaos!”

Silas yells.

“That’s not what we called it,”

I grit, throwing a pulse of my magic outward, forcing Orin back a step as his drain falters under the weight of fractured time.

“What? It’s better than what you wanted to name it,”

he calls, sliding beside me, breathless, eyes wild. “You wanted to call it Operation Clockblock.”

“Because that’s what it is,”

I shoot back, smirking despite myself as we circle Orin.

Lucien lunges toward us, but he’s caught in my dragnet—he’ll never get here in time. For one glittering second, it’s just me, Silas, and Orin, locked in a waltz of violence and bad decisions.

Silas winks at me. “Ready for the finale?”

“Do it.”

He snaps his fingers, and half a dozen versions of himself bloom across the cathedral—laughing, dancing, flipping each other off. Orin’s focus fractures, and the clones move, darting around him, pulling him away from the pillar, from Branwen.

I throw time itself like a dagger at the gap they leave behind.

“Go,”

I say under my breath, casting a glance toward Riven and Caspian already charging in, toward Luna poised to move.

The opening is there. All we need is one shot.

And Silas, panting beside me, grins like he’s won the whole damn world.

Ambrose

I don’t run. That’s not my style. Running is reckless. Uncontrolled.

But I move.

With Caspian’s whips cracking beside me like violent promises, I cut through the chaos. The war behind us rages—’ fractured time bends the room into layers, and Silas has multiplied into a dozen versions of disaster—but it’s her I see. Her throne. Her smirk. Branwen.

The bitch who took everything and tried to wear it like it belonged to her.

She sees me coming, and for the first time since we stepped into this realm, she looks—afraid. Not of death. No. Of me. Of what I carry in my bones. My magic. My promise.

Because I don’t bluff.

“You should’ve died with your lies in your mouth,”

I say, voice calm, steady, every syllable honed to a blade. “Instead, you made the mistake of touching what’s mine.”

Her gaze flicks to Caspian, then to the others in the distance. “Oh, Ambrose,”

she purrs, the rot in her voice masquerading as seduction. “Still so righteous. Even now, after everything I gave you.”

“You didn’t give me shit.”

I reach out—not to her, not yet—but to the ground beneath her throne. The marble shivers. Cracks. My magic spreads like ink in water, coiling up the legs of her pedestal, turning possession into weapon.

Caspian’s whip lashes out beside me, catching the armrest of her throne and tearing it off with a satisfying crunch of stone. His face is unreadable, save for the rage in his eyes. Lust incarnate—twisted now, bruised with betrayal—but deadly when focused. And right now, he’s focused entirely on her.

“Do you know what it cost me to not touch you?”

I ask, stepping closer, my fingers flexing. “Do you know how hard I fought to stay unbound to you?”

She laughs—ragged, thin. “Oh, Ambrose. You were already mine. You just didn’t know it yet.”

“I’m not yours,”

I snap, grabbing one of the splintered throne arms and turning it in my hand until the stone glows with the heat of my magic. “But you? You’ve been mine since the moment you took Lucien.”

I throw the shard at her. Not to kill—yet—but to claim. It lands beside her with a resounding crack, and the power in it spreads, crawling up the floor toward her like creeping vines, seeking to tether, to own.

Caspian follows it with a flick of his wrist, and the floor shatters beneath her throne, unbalancing it. Branwen stumbles. Unsteady. Weak.

And I smile.

“You took Orin. You turned Lucien into your fucking puppet. You laid hands on Caspian.”

My voice drops, cold and lethal. “But you still don’t understand. We’re not your monsters. We were never meant to be yours.”

She snarls, pushing up from the throne with a snarl of energy, a whip of black smoke curling around her fingers, ready to lash out.

“Try me,”

she hisses.

“I already have,”

I whisper, just as I step into her shadow.

And claim it.

The cathedral groans, every light dimming as my power floods the space, seizing the architecture, the stone, the veins of this cursed place. I take everything I can reach. And I hold it.

Beside me, Caspian draws closer, his power thrumming in waves now, seductive and terrifying, drawn from the same core of betrayal that pulses in me. And between us—Branwen finally staggers.

“You’re outnumbered,”

I murmur. “Outclassed.”

“And out of time,”

Caspian finishes, his voice a quiet death knell.

Behind us, the pillar looms—tall, ancient, the source of her invincibility. The others are still fighting, still giving us the seconds we need.

She lunges, snarling, hurling magic at us.

But this time—we don’t dodge.

We own it.

Branwen’s power slams into me like a tidal wave, but I don’t flinch. I’ve survived worse storms. Worse monsters.

And I’ve always walked away.

The black coils of her magic unfurl like serpents, snapping toward me, but I watch her hands—not the magic. Because it’s not hers. She’s leeching it from the men she puppeteered, like a starving thing gnawing on the bones of something better.

Lucien’s ice threads sharp through the air, a spear aimed for my throat. Orin’s sigils pulse against the marble floor, a silent trap meant to drag me under. It’s elegant, vicious—exactly the way Branwen likes to fight. Not with her own teeth, but with ours.

And I fucking smile.

Because she’s draining them dry to do it.

"You’re really burning through your toys fast, darling," I murmur, ducking the frost spear and letting it shatter against the pillar behind me. I shift left, stepping deliberately into the radius of Orin’s glyphs and feel the scrape of them licking at my skin, trying to pull me under.

And I take them.

My magic sinks deep into the sigils, infecting them like venom in a vein. Possession is a whisper in my blood, something dark and bottomless, and I watch Orin’s marks unravel beneath me, twisting against his will as I turn his power against her.

Branwen’s eyes flare, sharp and furious.

"You think you can outmaneuver me?" she hisses, her voice cracking at the edges, hair wild around her hollowed-out face. She looks brittle now, desperate, something sharp breaking apart beneath her carefully layered performance.

I tilt my head, lazy. Controlled.

"I’m not maneuvering you," I say softly. "I’m undoing you."

She throws Lucien’s magic next—a wall of black flame that splits the floor—but I don’t bother dodging. I lift my hand, palm open, and the flame freezes mid-air, siphoned into the curve of my fingers. Lucien’s strength flickers behind it, fractured. I taste the edges of it like a bitter burn.

"Stop using them," I tell her, voice colder now, slicing through the chaos. Caspian’s whips crack beside me again, carving space through the smoke and ruin, each strike surgically aimed, methodical. He’s been quiet, but I can feel him now—a slow, inevitable storm gathering behind me. This is his kill. I’m just cutting the path.

Branwen screams, throwing everything she has left. The cathedral shudders. Pillars groan and the roof splinters under the weight of her collapse. And still, I step through it, slipping her strikes like they’re nothing but whispers, drawing her deeper into her own unraveling.

"You’re running on borrowed power," I murmur as I close the last bit of distance, my voice pitched low, cruel. "And I’ve always known how to collect a debt."

Her eyes flick to Caspian—just once—but it’s enough.