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

Silas sails through the air like he was born to defy gravity, like the laws of physics are more of a suggestion than a rule he’ll ever obey. His body twists mid-flight, a blur of blades and borrowed magic, and the Hollow catches the motion with too much clarity—dust suspended, time fractured at the seams. It’s poetry written by chaos, and of course it’s him at the center of it.

And then—because he is who he is—he opens the bond. Not the low, instinctive hum we always share, not the wordless link between hearts and magic.

No. He throws the door wide. His voice crashes into my mind, loud and crackling like he’s yelling through a speaker that’s half on fire, and dripping with so much smugness I want to scream.

“How cool do I look right now?”

he asks, like he’s not mid-air, like he’s not an arc of sharpened death barreling straight toward a woman who could erase him. “One to ten. Eleven? Twelve? Do you wanna fuck after this? I’m thinking post-murder glow sex, yeah?”

I blink. Once.

And it takes everything in me not to laugh.

Everything.

Because this is exactly the kind of chaos he breathes into battle. It’s his signature—the flirtation laced in recklessness, the absolutely criminal timing. And worse—he’s not joking. Not entirely. There’s too much sincerity bleeding through the ridiculousness, too much boyish hope beneath the snark.

My heart stutters with a violent, unwilling affection.

Godsdammit, Silas.

I don’t answer him. Not with words. I let the bond pulse back once—sharp, hard, biting—more like a slap than a kiss. A warning. A promise.

He chuckles through it.

I feel the grin twist across his face before he even lands.

And despite the firestorm unraveling around us, despite the screams and the spells and the certainty that not all of us are walking out of this alive—

There’s something warm lodged in my chest. Because only Silas could make a warzone feel like a flirtation. And only I would be stupid enough to feel it back.

I’ve got bigger problems than Silas trying to flirt while midair—though gods help me, that disaster is branded into my mind now. No, right now it’s Caspian—Caspian—who’s charging again like the leash on his mind is snapping tighter, not looser. And Ambrose is the only thing standing between him and me.

Ambrose, who’s still bleeding from the knife that should’ve never touched him. A knife meant for me. A knife he took without hesitation.

Because of me.

He doesn’t falter, not visibly. Ambrose would let the world burn from the inside out before he gave anyone the satisfaction of seeing him stumble. But the blood on his side is dark now, soaking deeper with every movement, and I can feel it—how it's slowing him, inch by inch. How he's gritting through it like it’s an inconvenience, not a wound.

And Caspian… Caspian looks wrong.

His face is blank, pale in a way that doesn't belong to him, all the desire wiped clean and replaced with that distant sheen I hate. It isn’t him behind those eyes. Not completely. Branwen’s magic sits thick in his veins, twisting his will, curling every ounce of charm into something weaponized and grotesque. He doesn’t want to be doing this—I can feel it in the tremble of his aura, the flicker of hesitation—but he’s still moving like he does.

He lunges again, and Ambrose catches him mid-strike.

It’s not graceful. It’s brutal. Messy. Flesh meeting flesh, bone colliding with bone.

Ambrose snarls something too low for me to hear and shoves Caspian back with a burst of sheer force—not magic, not power. Just rage and iron-hard will. It buys a second, maybe two, but Caspian rolls with it and comes right back. He doesn’t even blink. His expression doesn’t change. If anything, the more resistance he meets, the more vacant he looks.

Like he’s losing to it.

Like Branwen’s finally digging deep enough to make him forget who I am.

But I can't move. Because if I do—if I try to reach him, or worse, hurt him—I might break what’s left of him completely.

And Ambrose… he's looking at me. Even while fighting, even while dodging Caspian's next strike, his gaze cuts sideways, pinning me in place with that calculating stare that always sees more than he should.

The message is clear in his expression. Stay back. I hate standing still while the people I love tear themselves apart in front of me. But I hate the idea of making this worse more.

So I stay where I am. And I pray Ambrose doesn't bleed out trying to fix another mess I made.

Caspian’s whip whistles past my face, missing by inches—a blur of glittering steel and twisted magic that cracks the air just behind me. I lunge back, breath caught in my throat, boots skidding across fractured stone as the ground where I stood erupts in a spray of shattered dust and heat. The impact leaves a scorched welt in the Hollow’s skin. If I’d been slower, if I hadn’t felt the pull of the bond tug like a scream behind my ribs—he would’ve cut straight through me.

He wouldn’t have meant to. But he would’ve.

And gods, that’s the problem, isn’t it? Out of everyone here, out of all the blood-drenched powerhouses tearing this battlefield apart, I’m the only one who can actually die.

I’m mortal. I’m the weak point. The crack in the wall. The edge Branwen is counting on.

Because if I die—if this fragile, exhausted, blood-humming body of mine finally goes still—it’s over.

She takes everything. I don’t know what she is—not fully. Not yet. But I know this much: she can’t force the bond. She can’t take the Sins through will alone. But if I’m gone, if I’m not here to hold what we’ve built, she can bend what’s left of them. She can twist their grief, their rage, their ruin into obedience. Manipulate what’s broken in them into submission. She’ll make them hers, and not through magic—but through loss.

And the others? She’ll use the bonded ones against them. Elias. Silas. Riven. She’ll rip it apart piece by piece, and they’ll feel every inch of it—weaponized affection turned into punishment. They’ll blame themselves. They’ll break under it. And once they’re broken, she’ll own them.

I stagger back another step, heart jackhammering, pulse roaring so loud in my ears it drowns out the next clash of magic behind me. The Hollow smells like ash and blood and something older—like memory being burned out of the dirt.

I grip the edge of my sleeve and press it hard to my mouth, grounding myself, forcing the shake out of my hands.

I can’t die.

Not because I’m afraid.

But because if I go down—

They all fall with me.

I should’ve trained harder. I should’ve never stopped. Should’ve bled more. Burned more. Taken every hit, every insult, every lesson carved into me and asked for more until I could’ve stood among them without needing to be protected. But I didn’t. I thought time would wait. I thought love—whatever fractured, brutal thing it’s become—was enough. I thought they would shield me until I learned how to wield what I am.

And now here I am.

A liability in a war I was born to anchor. A body waiting to be erased.

I move like I know what I’m doing, like instinct might be enough to keep me alive another second. But every shift, every dodge, every stumble back from a whip crack or a burst of stolen magic reminds me I’m not made for this.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

I’ve had weeks—weeks—of training. In between war councils and bonding rituals and trying not to fall apart under the weight of who I am to each of them. I’ve held weapons. I’ve bled in practice circles. I’ve stood toe to toe with Riven, let Silas taunt me until I snapped, let Elias shove me until I fought back. But none of that matters here.

Not when the battlefield is real. Not when the people I love are the ones I’m forced to face. I wouldn’t want to fight them. Even if I could. Even if I could crack the ground open with a thought, even if I could wield all the power inside me without it fracturing my soul—I wouldn’t raise a blade against them. Not Lucien. Not Orin. Not Caspian.

And yet... they would kill me now, if Branwen willed it.

So I stand here. Between survival and sacrifice. Between what I am and what I should have been. I grip the hilt of the dagger strapped to my thigh like it means something. Like it’ll save me when the moment comes. But I know better. I’m not fast enough. I’m not strong enough. I’m not enough.

Sure—I carry wrath in my veins, envy in my blood, sloth coiled in my bones like it belongs there. The bond runs through me like a second spine, humming with heat and heartbreak. I have them inside me, tangled into every inch of what I am. But none of that makes me powerful.

Because I don’t know how to use it. Not really.

Not like they do.

So what am I, then? A mistake. A miscalculation wrapped in skin. A soft thing that keeps surviving out of sheer, defiant accident. A body just waiting to be killed.

And gods—gods—do I hate that more than anything.

I don’t know enough about Ambrose. Not really.

Not about what he is beneath all that cool restraint, that silk-wrapped cruelty he wears like armor. Not about how far his power reaches—what it can do when he’s not holding it back. Not about where the limit is, or if he even has one. Everything about him feels calculated. Curated. Like he’s the only one who knows where the edge of the blade is, and he’s just waiting to see if I’ll step on it.

But I know this—he’s not winning right now.

Caspian’s whip cuts again, and Ambrose dodges by inches, too slow. He spins back, eyes sharp, mouth tight, and his hand flies out, fingers curling like he's trying to grip something that isn’t there. Something that maybe once obeyed him without effort. But now it staggers. Fails.

I see it when he clenches his side.

His hand stays there too long. Blood paints his fingers, dark and thick and soaking through what’s left of that sharp, pristine coat he never should’ve worn into a war. It's not just the wound—it’s how it’s draining him. With every movement, with every breath, I can feel the way he hides the limp, the tremble in his wrist, the way his stance is faltering. He's bleeding too much. Too fast. And he’s pretending it's fine because that’s what Ambrose does.

He doesn’t ask for help. He doesn’t falter in front of anyone.

He just endures. Even when it's killing him.

And Caspian—Caspian doesn’t even look winded.

He’s terrifying like this. Graceful in a way that shouldn’t exist in the middle of a battlefield. His power radiates off him in waves, lust twisted into something volatile and sharp, and I know he’s not in there fully—not the version of him that reads in shadows and teases with lazy charm and walks like he owns the space beneath his feet. This Caspian is silent. Fluid. Controlled. Occupied.

And he’s pressing Ambrose back step by step, blow by blow.

I catch a glimpse of Ambrose’s face as he deflects a strike with a wave of his hand, the magic rippling like gold too tarnished to shine. His eyes flick to me—just for a heartbeat—and in that moment, I see it. What he doesn’t want me to know.

He’s not holding back because he’s arrogant.

He’s holding back because he’s drowning.

And he won’t stop.

Because he knows—if Caspian gets through him, I’m next.

And he’d rather bleed out protecting me than admit he can’t.

It happens so fast I don’t have time to breathe, let alone brace.

Caspian slams his head into Ambrose’s face with brutal, unrelenting force. The sound is obscene—sharp and final, a crunch that splits the air and seems to echo inside my chest. I watch Ambrose’s head snap back, blood erupting from his nose in a sudden, grotesque spray that blinds him instantly. It doesn’t slow Caspian. It opens the path. Ambrose stumbles, and Caspian moves like a blade released from its sheath—silent, inevitable, devastating.

He’s on me in a breath. And I know it’s coming. I feel it before it hits—something primal, visceral, bone-deep. My body tries to move, to twist out of the way, to summon something, anything. But it’s too late.

The blade sinks into my shoulder just beneath the collarbone—too close to my heart. For a moment, everything stills. Not from shock. From recognition.

Because I feel something strange. Something wrong.

Caspian’s hand isn’t wrapped around the hilt. He isn’t gripping the weapon like a soldier. His palm is flat against the blade itself, forcing it forward—forcing it into me—while the steel carves into his own flesh. Blood pours down the metal from both of us, slick and warm and terrifying. And yet he doesn’t stop.

His eyes meet mine.

Wide. Panicked. Haunted. He looks at me like he knows exactly what he’s doing—and like he’d give anything not to be doing it. His body is shaking. His mouth opens like he’s going to say my name, but nothing comes out. Just breath. Just guilt.

The moment shatters as his head jerks back violently, and more blood pours from his nose—thick and unnatural, staining the front of my shirt, the side of my throat. He lets out a sharp, strangled noise as he yanks the blade free from my shoulder. My knees give out, but he catches me, hand pressed hard to the wound, trying to hold in what’s already spilling out too fast.

His grip trembles against my skin, and his face twists—not with triumph, not even fear.

With horror. He turns his head sharply over his shoulder, eyes locking on Ambrose, who’s still trying to rise behind him. Still bleeding. Still burning with something half-feral and fully livid.

And then Caspian yells—raw and desperate.

“The bond’s broken!”

His voice cracks, slicing through the battlefield, through the Hollow, through me. I don’t know what he means. Branwen’s? Or did he mean something else entirely?

I don’t get to ask. The pain hits in full, a searing wave that takes the breath from my lungs and the light from my eyes.

The world tilts. And then—I fall into the dark.