Page 8 of The Sin Binder's (The Seven Sins Academy #4)

The door clicks shut behind me with the kind of finality that settles in your bones.

Caspian doesn’t move. He’s moves to the far wall, standing with one hand braced against the bookshelf like he needs it to stay upright. His head is bowed, not in surrender but in something quieter—hesitation or dread, I can’t tell. The light in here is dim, stained by the violet cast of Hollow moonlight that filters through the broken window. Shadows cut across his face in uneven angles, carving him into something jagged.

He doesn’t look up when I step farther into the room. Doesn’t greet me with a smirk, or a quip, or even the empty bravado he’s worn like armor for months. He’s a statue, all marble lines and no warmth, and it makes something cold unfurl in the center of my chest.

I say his name, soft enough to break something. “Caspian.”

He doesn’t flinch, but his hand tightens on the wood.

He’s wearing black again—of course he is—but not the kind that makes him gleam like a sin polished to a mirror. This black is flat. Functional. Like he dressed without thinking, without feeling, without a need to be seen. The coat is wrinkled, the buttons mismatched, and his boots are still caked with ash from the battlefield.

I take another step. Still, he doesn’t move.

“I thought you’d hide in the bathroom,”

I say, gently teasing, trying to dislodge the weight pressing down on the space between us.

His shoulders shift, barely. “I considered it,”

he mutters. “Figured you’d just kick the door in. And I didn’t want to give you that satisfaction.”

His voice is hoarse, raw like something scraped across his throat on the way out. It’s not sultry. Not smooth. It’s not the Caspian who once whispered filth into my ear with a grin sharp enough to cut silk. It’s the man beneath all that—what’s left of him, anyway.

I fold my arms and lean against the closed door. Not blocking his exit. But not moving aside either.

“I’m not here to trap you,”

I say. “But I’m not leaving until we finish this.”

He laughs—quiet and bitter, the sound of someone who knows exactly how many pieces they’re in but can’t name a single one. “Finish,”

he echoes, like the word is a curse. “Right. Like this is a job to be done.”

“It’s a bond,”

I reply evenly. “It’s more than that. You know it is.”

Finally, finally, he turns.

And when he does, it guts me.

His face is drawn. Pale in places, bruised in others. His mouth—once so quick to smile, to smirk, to taunt—is a straight, tense line. His eyes… gods, his eyes don’t look like his. They’re dim. Not from lack of light. From absence. Like something inside him went dark and never came back on.

“I don’t feel like myself,”

he says, his voice low, deliberate. “Not in my skin. Not in my power. It’s like I’m walking around in a body that remembers you, but my soul’s somewhere else. Somewhere she took and didn’t bother to return.”

“I know,”

I say, and I do. I’ve seen what Branwen did. Felt it in every touch he didn’t let linger. Every glance he’s refused to give. “But the bond—it doesn’t need the version of you you think you lost. It just needs you.”

He shakes his head. Not a violent motion. Just tired. Like even disagreeing takes too much energy.

“You should hate me,”

he whispers.

“Why?”

I ask. “Because she used you?”

“Because I let her.”

“No, Caspian,”

I say, stepping forward until I’m in front of him, close enough to touch, though I don’t yet. “You didn’t. She carved obedience into your spine. That’s not the same as consent.”

He lifts his gaze to mine, finally. And the pain in it—gods, it’s staggering. The kind of hurt that doesn’t scream. It just sits there. Quiet. Heavy. Permanent.

“Then why does it feel like I broke something anyway?”

he asks. “Every time I look at you, it’s like… like I remember wanting you, but I can’t reach the want. I can’t feel it like I used to. I can’t feel anything the way I used to.”

My hand lifts—slow, cautious—and I press it to his chest. His heart stutters beneath it. Unsteady. But present.

“You’re not broken,”

I say. “You’re bruised. And you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared,” he snaps.

“You are,”

I counter, and lean in, not kissing him yet, just close enough to feel the heat of his breath. “You’re terrified this won’t work. That you’ll hurt me. That you’ll never come back to yourself. And you’re afraid that if you reach for me and still feel nothing, it means she won.”

His lips part. Not for a reply. For air. I press closer. My body against his, soft where he’s rigid, sure where he’s lost.

“Caspian,”

I whisper, “let me in.”

He closes his eyes. Just for a moment.

And when they open again, there’s something new in them.

Not heat. Not lust. Not yet.

But permission.

I lean up and kiss him. Not the kind of kiss meant to seduce. The kind meant to remind. Slow. Anchored. Deep. My hands slide up to cup his jaw, my thumbs brushing the curve of his cheekbone. He doesn’t kiss me back at first—just stands there, caught in the moment, breath held—but then his hands lift, hesitant, and settle at my waist.

He exhales like it hurts.

And then he moves. Not rough. Not practiced. Just… honest.

His lips catch mine again, firmer this time, with a tremble he doesn’t hide. His hands flex against my hips. And when he pulls me closer, it isn’t about sex. Not yet.

There’s a point—barely perceptible—where my want stops being mine.

His hands haven’t moved much, still bracketed at my waist like he’s holding something fragile, and his mouth brushes mine in that aching, reverent way that would’ve wrecked me weeks ago. But something slides beneath my skin, a warmth too smooth, too curated, that doesn’t come from inside me. It rolls through me with purpose, not like a wave of arousal, but like something engineered to be perfect. It finds the corners of my body that carry hesitation and replaces them with hunger. Perfect, seamless hunger.

It feels good. Too good.

And that’s the problem.

I know this feeling. The signature of Lust. The slow-spreading golden drug of it, soaked into bone and blood like it belongs. He’s not pushing it on me. But it’s there—subtle, threaded through the space between our mouths, an offering shaped like instinct.

And I can’t do this with it hanging between us.

I pull back—not abruptly, not with rejection. Just enough. Enough to breathe. Enough to put thought between body and reaction.

His eyes open. His lips are still parted, a question hovering there that he doesn’t ask. He looks at me like I broke something. Like he doesn’t understand why I would stop when the moment was finally soft enough to sink into.

“I can feel it,”

I say, voice low but steady. I’m not accusing. I’m not angry. But I’m not letting it go unspoken. “Your power. You’re using it on me.”

He freezes. Just for a second. A blink of disbelief, a flicker of self-doubt that flares and dies before I can chase it.

“I thought it would help,”

he says, and the words aren’t defensive—they’re small. Exposed.

“I know.”

I press my palm gently to his chest, grounding us both, but not inviting more. “And it does. That’s the problem.”

He doesn’t move.

“It’s beautiful,”

I admit. “What you can do. The way you make people want. It’s not manipulation, not when you use it like this. But it’s not me, either. It’s not what I want.”

His brow furrows, and I can see the ache behind his silence, the instinct to disappear beneath that power, to retreat into the version of himself that always knew how to give pleasure without needing to ask for it. Caspian—the man I met when I first stepped into this cursed academy—was made of confidence and grin-laced sin. But this man? This one in front of me now? He’s stripped bare of all that polish. And he doesn’t know how to move without it.

He nods once—sharply, like a blade drawn against his own chest. He doesn’t say he understands. But he steps back. Just a breath of space. And I feel it instantly.

The magic is gone.

When he leans down to kiss me, it’s softer than before—too soft. He still doesn’t know where to put his hands. One of them drifts toward my hip, hovers like he’s unsure he has the right. The other curls near my ribs, his thumb brushing over skin like he’s expecting it to flinch. His body moves like he’s holding back—not from lust, not from desire—but from himself. Like he doesn’t trust what will happen if he lets go. Like he’s afraid of what he’ll feel. Or worse—what he won’t.

The kiss deepens, but it’s clumsy now. Our teeth knock once. His jaw works against mine with effort, not instinct. And I can feel it in his body—the hesitation, the weight of shame threaded into every breath.

This isn’t working.

So I move.

He lets me push him back onto the bed without protest, but I can feel the stiffness in his limbs—the resistance he won’t voice. His body is braced beneath me like he’s expecting pain. Not from me. From the moment. From himself.

I swing my leg over him, straddling his hips, and he doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for me. Just watches, wide-eyed, mouth parted, barely breathing. I peel my shirt off slowly—not to tease, but to set the pace. To show him I’m here. Present. Awake.

His hands twitch at his sides like he doesn’t know what he’s allowed to do.

I guide them. One at a time. Place them on my thighs.

“Don’t use it,”

I murmur, meeting his eyes. “Just be here.”

He nods. Swallows. His palms flex slightly against my skin, like he’s trying to memorize the heat of me without burning.

I lean down, kiss him—slow, coaxing—and he kisses me back, but he’s cautious. Our mouths move out of sync. Too much thought behind it. His tongue brushes mine, then pulls back like he’s second-guessing it.

When I reach between us and wrap my hand around him, he gasps—sharp and surprised. Already hard, but tense. Like he didn’t believe this was really going to happen.

I shift my hips, line us up, and sink down on him in one slow, steady motion. His eyes roll back. His fingers dig into my thighs. A groan claws its way out of him—low and helpless.

I pause once he’s fully inside me, giving him a second to adjust. His chest is rising fast, his jaw clenched tight. He looks overwhelmed, like sensation is pouring through him too fast to process.

I start to move.

Small rolls of my hips, letting the friction build between us, grounding myself in the rhythm. At first, he doesn’t meet it. His hands stay tight on my legs, not guiding, not exploring. Just holding on. He’s not present yet. He’s still watching it happen instead of being in it.

I place my hands on his chest, lean forward, let my body press flush to his. My breasts slide against his skin. My breath fans over his throat. I feel him pulse inside me.

Still, he waits.

“Caspian,”

I whisper, into the shell of his ear. “You’re allowed to want this.”

His hands slide—hesitantly—up to my waist. Then my ribs. Then, finally, his arms wrap around my back, pulling me closer, tighter, until there’s no space between us. His hips thrust up once, shallow, uncoordinated.

I answer with a grind of my own. We meet. Once. Twice. The third time, we find it.

Something clicks.

His hand fists in my hair, the other skimming down to the curve of my ass, guiding me now—his rhythm syncing with mine. His hips roll, not desperate, not frenzied, but with purpose. Heat coils low in my belly. The bond pulses in my spine.

He kisses me again—deeper this time. No more hesitation. His tongue sweeps mine with hunger, with memory. Like he’s remembering how this used to feel.

I break the kiss with a gasp, rock harder against him. He groans, head tipping back. His hands are on my hips now, grounding us both, and he's moving—meeting me thrust for thrust, slow and deliberate, dragging himself against every nerve ending inside me like he’s carving a new map.

I brace my palms on his chest, arching my back, riding him harder. His eyes are locked on me now—dark, dilated, stunned—and for once, not haunted.

“Fuck,”

he breathes. “…”

It’s the way he says my name.

Not broken. Not bitter.

Like it’s the first word he’s ever said that meant something.

The pleasure builds slowly. No magic pushing it along. No supernatural spark. Just muscle and motion and breath. His fingers slip between my legs, tentative at first, then firmer when I moan. He finds that spot, rubs slow circles, and I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood.

“Don’t stop,”

I gasp, hips stuttering.

He doesn’t. He holds me there, works me open, and when I come, it hits like fire and grit and relief. My whole body trembles. The bond snaps—a hot, final seal—and I collapse against him, gasping into his neck.

He follows not long after, with a grunt and a full-body shudder, buried deep inside me, his arms wrapped so tight around my back it almost hurts.

But he’s there.

Really there.

When I finally lift my head, we’re both breathing hard, sweaty, wrecked. He blinks up at me, eyes unfocused, chest still heaving.

Then he says, voice raw and hoarse:

“…That was not what I thought that would be.”

And there it is—the awkwardness, sliding in just behind the intimacy. I snort out a laugh before I can stop it and fall sideways onto the mattress, legs still shaking.

“No,”

I say. “It was better.”

He doesn’t shift away, doesn’t reach for me—but he doesn't relax, either. He just lies there, one arm draped over his face like a flimsy barrier, as if the crook of his elbow could protect him from being seen. And for a heartbeat, I think maybe he’s trying to catch himself, to come back down.

But then his spine arches, almost imperceptibly. A quiet tremor runs through him. And I feel it—the breath that catches. The way it lingers. Suspended. Fragile. There’s a fracture under the surface that spreads, delicate and inevitable.

The sound that escapes him is so soft I might’ve missed it if I wasn’t lying against his chest. But I feel it vibrate through me—a sharp, jagged exhale, like something breaking loose from a place too long buried.

He’s crying.

Not with violence. Not with fury. It’s quieter than that. More devastating. His body curls in on itself like it’s trying to contain the collapse, like he’s ashamed of how much it hurts.

I move toward him slowly, deliberately, sliding across the sheets until I’m pressed against his side. I don’t speak. I don’t ask. I wrap one arm around his waist, the other across his chest, and press my forehead to the curve of his shoulder. His skin is still warm, still damp, and beneath it, his heart is racing. Not from sex. From this.

From feeling.

He doesn’t push me away. Doesn’t flinch. He just turns toward me, almost instinctively, like his body is searching for something solid in a world that no longer holds its shape. His face finds my throat, my collarbone, whatever part of me he can bury into without needing to look up.

And then it comes.

The shaking.

The way his whole frame begins to tremble, quietly at first, like a ripple moving outward from the place he’d tried to lock it all away. But it builds—each breath rougher, more frayed than the last, until his hands clutch at me, fingers pressing into my skin like he doesn’t know how else to hold on.

Tears soak my skin. His breath hitches. He tries to stay quiet, to hold it in, but it slips through—the broken rhythm of a man who’s been holding his grief with both hands for too long, and no longer has the strength to keep it caged.

I don’t try to stop it.

I don’t soothe him with words. I don’t shush the noise he makes. I let him cry—raw and unguarded—into the hollow of my body like I was built for this moment, like my ribs were carved to catch everything he couldn’t carry on his own.

He clings to me as if it’s the first time he’s been allowed to feel what’s real. No mask. No performance. No seduction. Just this—his tears on my skin, his body curled against mine, and nothing in the way.

I stroke my fingers through his hair, slow and steady, and anchor us both in the quiet. Not comforting him to make it stop—just to let him know I’m still here.

He cries for a long time. And when it ends, it doesn’t end cleanly. He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t apologize. He just breathes. Shallow and wrecked, curled against me like something sacred and ashamed.

So I stay.

Wrapped around him. Silent. Still.

Because this—this is the bond.

Not the sex. Not the magic.

But this.

The grief. The nakedness. The truth of who he is when no one’s watching.

Ambrose

I hide in the garage like a fucking teenager dodging his feelings. A six-pack of beer sweats against the concrete beside me, untouched but necessary. It’s not about the taste. It’s about the weight in my hand, the clink of glass that sounds louder in my head than anything else right now. A distraction. A prop for a man pretending he’s still in control.

Because I’m not.

Caspian is bonded now. Fully. It snapped into place like a shackle—and I felt it. We all did. The room shifted. The universe held its breath for a second too long, and everything turned. The bond’s sealed, stitched tight between them, and because of that, the pull I feel toward her is worse. Sharper. Hungrier.

That’s the part no one tells you—when one bond completes, it’s not relief for the rest of us. It’s temptation. Magnified. Like her power is reaching out, wrapping a hand around each of our throats and squeezing, softly. Seductively. She smells different now. Looks different. Like power was poured into her bloodstream and kissed her bones.

She’s not just a sin binder anymore.

She’s becoming something else. Something none of us were prepared for. And I am not going to be number five. Silas and I always held out. Always made sure we were the ones who stayed unclaimed, unchained. The others fell like dominos, and then—thankfully, beautifully—most sin binders died before it came to this.

But ?

She’s still here.

And worse—she’s thriving.

It’s not supposed to go this far. Five bonds is the most we’ve ever seen, and that ended in a funeral and a crater in the world that hasn’t healed since. I don’t think she’s dying. I don’t think she’s going to stop. I think she’s going to keep taking. Keep claiming. And the part that eats at me isn’t that I’ll be next.

It’s that a part of me already wants it.

The bond is whispering at the edges of my thoughts. A song I can’t unhear. I feel her walking through the house like a gravitational shift. I know what room she’s in by the way my skin tightens. I know when she looks in my direction, even if she’s on the other side of the fucking building.

And now Caspian feels it too. The rawness of what it means to be truly bound to her.

He’s ruined and glowing and completely hers. That should be a warning. It should be a goddamn red flag. But all it does is make the pressure in my chest bloom wider.

I crack open a beer and let the foam hiss over my fingers.

Ball and chain? No. That would be too easy. doesn’t bind you. She buries you. In want. In power. In fucking inevitability.

The snickering cuts through the haze of my thoughts like a blade made of idiocy. Sharp. Annoying. Familiar.

I don’t even have to look to know it’s them.

But I do. Because hope dies last, and maybe—just maybe—there’s a chance they aren’t defiling my property.

Nope.

Hope’s dead.

I round the far side of the garage, beer still in hand, and there they are. The dynamic disasters. Silas crouched like a gremlin beside the back tire of my bike, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth while Elias leans against the wall like this is performance art and not a full-blown crime against machinery.

Silas glances up at me, wide-eyed, as if he’s surprised I caught him with the tip of his finger dragging something thick and black across the chrome. He’s not even subtle. He’s halfway through detailing a pair of balls—shaded, for fuck’s sake.

My bike. My pristine, custom, matte-black motorcycle now has a penis on it. A well-endowed one.

“I will kill you,”

I say, flatly.

Silas grins like I’ve just offered him dessert. “You always say that. You never do. Honestly, at this point, I feel like it’s an empty threat and I’m emotionally wounded.”

“You’re going to be physically wounded in about three seconds,”

I mutter, grabbing his collar and hauling him up like a sack of stupid.

Elias doesn’t even flinch. “If you’re gonna do it, do it fast. We’ve got plans later. I told I’d teach her how to flip someone over her shoulder.”

“Why the hell would you teach her that?”

He shrugs, biting back a smirk. “So she can flip you.”

Silas, dangling slightly, beams. “And then pin you. Real dominance play, you know?”

I shove him off me. He stumbles, catches himself, and has the audacity to bow.

My fingers twitch. This is what it’s come to—dodging an ancient, primal bond that wants to rip me open from the inside while these two assholes treat the end of the world like recess.

But loves them. Bonds them. Trusts them. She lets Silas press grinning kisses to her cheek like it’s his damn right. She lets Elias wrap her in sarcasm and heat until she’s laughing through her own power. They get to be her escape.

Me? I’m the one she doesn’t look too long at. The one she’s still deciding whether she wants to burn or bend.

And that’s fine.

I prefer it that way.

“Clean the bike,”

I tell Silas. “If I see one drip of ink when I check it again, I’m ripping the engine out and throwing it in your bed.”

“You say that like that’s not an upgrade.”

Elias snorts, already walking off. “He sleeps better on hard surfaces anyway. Builds character.”

I watch them disappear around the corner of the garage, bickering like idiots.

And for a second—just a second—it’s almost easy to pretend everything isn’t unraveling. But the pull throbs in my chest again, a low, hungry ache dragging my thoughts right back to her.

To .

To what comes next.

I sigh, long and low, as I crouch beside the tire. The marker squeaks with every stroke as I shade in the ridiculous curvature of Silas’s masterpiece. It's crude. It's juvenile. And, fuck me, it’s funny. It’ll wash off. Eventually. But for now? It stays.

My fingers blur the lines with deliberate exaggeration, a smirk twitching at the corner of my mouth as I finish detailing the most ridiculous veiny monstrosity I’ve ever seen deface my bike.

“You’re defiling your own bike now?”

Her voice slices through me before I even hear her footsteps. Soft, amused, curious.

I don’t look up immediately. Because I know what happens when I do. That tether, that cursed pull—it digs in deeper. Like she’s not already woven through me in ways I can’t cut out.

“What are you doing?”

she asks again, slower this time. Like she’s genuinely baffled.

I cap the marker and rise, fingers stained in ink, soul stained in far worse. “Enhancing it. You have no appreciation for fine art.”

Her brow arches. She’s wrapped in one of those oversized shirts that definitely isn’t hers. Probably Silas’s. Or Elias’s. Or worse—mine. I don’t even know anymore. She wears us like threads stitched into her skin. Wears our damn chaos like perfume.

“Is that… a dick?”

she asks, trying not to laugh, biting her lip as she walks closer.

“Anatomically exaggerated,”

I say coolly, wiping my hands on a rag and tossing it to the side. “Silas’s doing. I just improved the shading.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“No, darling. I’m the only one here telling the truth.”

That catches her. She stills, her breath pausing just slightly. That’s the thing about —she hears the layers. She tastes the bitterness under the sweetness. She knows I don’t say things unless I mean them.

She steps forward. Close enough that the bond hums between us like a wire pulled too tight.

“You going to run again?”

she asks, voice soft. Accusatory, but not cruel.

I meet her eyes then. The way she holds herself now—it’s different. There’s more power in her posture, more steel in her spine. She’s not the girl we met. Not the Sin Binder we thought we could use.

She’s becoming something else.

Something worse.

“I’m not the one running,”

I say quietly.

She narrows her gaze. “No? Then what are you doing out here? Hiding in a garage. Shading dicks.”

“I’m waiting for you to make a mistake.”

Her breath catches. Just barely. But it does.

“Because when you do,”

I continue, stepping closer, the air between us crackling now, the bond pressing between my ribs like a knife, “I’ll be there to collect what’s left.”

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t retreat.

She fucking smiles.

“You think you’ll be the one collecting me?”

she murmurs, chin lifting just slightly.

“No,”

I say. “I think I already have.”

And I do. Even if I never take the bond. Even if I never let her inside me the way the others have—there’s a part of her that’s mine. The part that looks at me and sees everything I want to keep hidden.

The part that knows I’ll ruin her, and wants me anyway.

“Take me for a ride,”

she says, tilting her head like she doesn’t already have her hands wrapped around every part of me that matters. And I laugh, because it’s easier than letting her see how tightly my fists curl around the marker I haven’t put down yet.

She’s not teasing—not the way I expect. No sultry glance, no baited breath. Just that damn smile that says she knows I’ll say yes. Because I always fucking do.

“You really want to climb on while he’s still sporting that?”

I nod toward the veiny masterpiece proudly inked across the tank of my bike.

She barely glances at it. “I’ve ridden worse things,”

she deadpans, voice dry, eyes shining.

My breath catches in my throat. Not because of the innuendo—but because she says it so dryly, so unapologetically, that it knocks the ground loose beneath me. doesn’t flirt. She dares. She steps into your space and claims it like it was always hers. And the worst part is? I let her.

“You scratch the paint,”

I murmur, stepping toward her, “and I’m charging you interest.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “You say that like I haven’t already.”

And I really should walk away. I should tell her no. Remind her what I am—what this bond between us isn’t. But my hand’s already reaching for the helmet. I don’t hand it to her. I hold it out, just to watch her take it. Just to feel her fingers brush mine when she does.

When she swings her leg over behind me, she doesn’t cling. She settles in like she’s done this before—and she has. Like she knows exactly where to place her hands—low on my hips, where she knows I’ll feel it.

She leans in, breath against my ear, casual and warm. “You’re not going to pretend to be all stoic and mysterious while I’m back here, are you?”

I smirk, flipping the visor down. “Only if you pretend you’re not already thinking about what happens when we get back.”

“I’m always thinking about what happens when we get back,”

she murmurs.

The engine roars to life between us.

And for a moment, I let her believe she’s the one in control. Let her think she’s the one deciding where we go. But the truth is, I’ll take her anywhere she asks—so long as I’m the one she comes home to.

I kill the engine and let the quiet settle around us. The poppies sway, heavy-headed and vibrant beneath the pale kiss of early twilight, and the willow—old and bent like it’s bowing to some forgotten god—sighs above us in a hush of rustling leaves.

She swings off the bike, boots crunching against the gravel path that ribbons toward the tree line. Her head tilts back, gaze trailing up the curtain of green that hangs like a veil from the willow’s limbs.

“I didn’t know this was here,”

she says. Her voice is soft. Not reverent. Just… surprised. Like something about this place shifts a piece inside her she didn’t know could move.

I arch a brow. “Silas didn’t drag you out here to smoke mushrooms and skinny-dip in the pond?”

She snorts. “No. But now I’m going to ask him why the hell he didn’t.”

I step off the bike, slow, deliberate. “Because this is mine.”

There’s a pause. A long one. Her eyes meet mine, and she doesn’t smile, doesn’t quip back. Just watches me like she’s measuring how much of that I mean.

All of it. Every word.

The breeze lifts her hair, pulling it across her cheek like it’s caressing her on my behalf. She tucks it behind her ear absently and walks toward the tree, fingers grazing the low, moss-rough trunk as she circles it. She doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t tease. She’s not trying to provoke. And maybe that’s why my blood’s already starting to heat—because she’s not trying, and it’s still happening. That slow descent. That pull I can’t fucking shake.

“You bring your girls here?”

she asks without looking at me.

“No.”

I shove my hands in my pockets, watch her trace the wide roots with her boot. “They wouldn’t know what to do with this much quiet.”

Her lips curve, the barest smirk. “So you brought me.”

I shrug. “You make noise without talking. Figured it’d balance out.”

She laughs at that, the sound low and real, like it punches through something inside her chest before she can stop it. It’s not sweet. It’s not cute. It’s fucking dangerous—because I want to crawl inside that sound and make her do it again. Louder. Breathless. With her back pressed to bark and my hand between her thighs.

And I can have her. That’s the deal. It’s not just want. It’s permission. She gave it to me, mouth to mine, in sweat and moans and a promise that she wouldn’t run from this. Not from me. But I don’t move. Not yet.

Instead, I say, “This is where I go when I need to remember who I am.”

She turns, her expression unreadable. “Do you forget often?”

“Only around you.”

That makes her pause. She blinks once, slowly, and something shifts in her shoulders—like a drawbridge lowering just an inch. Her eyes are dark, not guarded, but curious. Wanting. Not for sex. Not just for that.

“You planning to fuck me under that tree, Ambrose?”

I take a step forward. Then another. “Do you want me to?”

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smirk. Just stands there in the shade of the willow, her hair wild and her mouth parted and her pulse fluttering where her throat meets her collarbone. I can see it. I can feel it. She wants this—me—but she’s not going to beg for it.

Good. I don’t want begging. I want her to claim it.

And when she finally says, “Yes,”

it’s not soft. It’s not demure. It’s a challenge. One I fully intend to meet.

I drop my coat to the grass. Then my shirt, slow, deliberate, letting her watch every inch of skin I reveal like it’s a confession. Her brow arches, but she doesn’t comment—she knows better than to ask why. I’m not taking my clothes off because I’m eager. I’m doing it because I want her to see the cost. The bandages crisscrossing my ribs from the last fight. The bruises blooming like secrets too long hidden. The jagged mark near my collarbone that still thrums faintly with borrowed power.

And still, she looks. Like I’m a puzzle she could solve if she just had more time. I hate how close she is to being right.

I step into her space and scoop her up without warning. Her legs wrap around my waist like it’s instinct, and maybe it is—maybe everything about her is designed to ruin me. She’s light, but not fragile. Fire disguised in softness. And I know if I drop her, she’ll catch herself before the ground ever gets a taste.

I lift her because it saves my back. But she grins like she thinks it’s about her. Like I can’t help myself.

Maybe I can’t.

Her arms hook around my neck, fingers threading into the back of my hair as she leans in, slow and maddening, like she wants me to ask for it. Her breath ghosts across my mouth, and then—fuck—her tongue slides along my lips. Not a kiss. A taunt. A warning. A goddamn summons.

I groan, low and sharp, pressing her harder against me, until her smirk disappears and something hungrier takes its place. My hand cradles the back of her neck, the other anchoring her against my bare chest, and I kiss her like she belongs there. Because right now, she does.

Her mouth parts beneath mine, and it’s not soft. It’s not slow. It’s her teeth against my bottom lip and her nails biting into my shoulder, like she needs to leave a mark before I disappear again. She tastes like challenge. Like the consequences I’ve spent years trying to outrun. I deepen it, take more than I should, drag a sound from her throat that makes my spine snap straight.

She’s not innocent. She never was. But she makes me want to be the monster she deserves.

“Don’t make me beg,”

I murmur against her lips, but it’s not a warning. It’s a confession. A curse.

She pulls back just enough to whisper, “You wouldn’t know how.”

And she’s right. Because I’ve never had to. Until her.