Page 28 of The Sin Binder’s Vow (The Seven Sins Academy #3)

Silas stands at the foot of my bed like chaos incarnate—shirtless, barefoot, grinning with the kind of wickedness that makes gods flinch. The firelight paints golden shadows on his chest, catching the curve of muscle and the faint shimmer of magic already rippling under his skin. He’s too pleased with himself. And I hate that I already know I’m going to let him get away with it.

“Do you trust me?”

he asks, and I don't like his tone.

“I trust you less when you ask me that with that face.”

He hums, delighted.

“That’s fair. But hear me out.”

Then he flicks his fingers.

And suddenly—there are two of him. Same eyes. Same smug curve of mouth. Same feral hunger. The second Silas appears like a conjured sin, half-dressed in loose black pants that hang low on his hips, nothing else. He stretches—stretches—like a cat that knows it's beautiful and dangerous and fully aware of its power. Their power. Twin grins flash in unison. Two devils with matching dimples.

“You can’t be serious,”

I whisper.

“Oh, we’re serious,”

the first one says.

“Terrifyingly serious,”

echoes the second.

They both wiggle their eyebrows at me. I stare. They stare back. The first one tips his head toward the other, casually, like he’s offering me a glass of wine instead of a walking, talking copy of himself.

“This is a very experimental bonding experience,”

he says.

“Think of it as... a cosmic loophole. Technically, only one of us is bound. But we’re sharing everything tonight.”

The second one chimes in.

“Especially you.”

My mouth opens, then closes. Then opens again, because what the actual fuck is happening?

“You cloned yourself.”

“Temporary illusion split,”

says the first one.

“With substance,”

the second adds.

“He’s got taste. I’ve got technique.”

“You’re the same person,”

I hiss, heart thudding.

“Are we?”

the first muses.

“Debatable,”

says the second.

“I’m definitely the fun one.”

They move in tandem, circling me like I’m the center of some spell they’ve been perfecting in secret. My skin heats, magic prickling beneath it—not with warning. With anticipation. The bond recognizes Silas. It doesn’t protest the duplicate.

Because it feels like him.

Both of them.

And gods help me, I want to know what it feels like to be touched by both.

“I should stop this,” I murmur.

“You should,”

they say in unison.

Neither of them moves closer. Not yet. But it’s a trap. The kind of pause a predator gives when it wants you to make the next move. My breath comes shallow, my hands twitch at my sides.

I take one step forward. Only one.

They pounce. The real Silas grabs my waist, spinning me toward the bed with a laugh against my throat, all teeth and heat. The duplicate presses up behind me, his hands already sliding under my shirt with reverence and hunger like he’s never touched me before—

They’re in sync. Perfect, terrifying sync. Hands mapping familiar territory with new hunger. My shirt disappears before I realize it’s gone. Lips find my neck. My collarbone. My lower back. They murmur to each other as they work, narrating like artists admiring their own damn masterpiece.

“Gods, your skin,” says one.

“She always taste this good?”

“Better,”

murmurs the other.

I try to stay composed. I fail.

One Silas slides down my body, kissing his way to my navel. The other palms my breasts, biting my shoulder gently, as if to remind me who he is. Who they are. My knees go weak. I don’t know whose hand catches me, but I land soft. On silk. On temptation.

On my back.

Two Silas’s above me, identical, smirking like I’m about to be ruined.

The real one kisses me with the kind of hunger that speaks of years, not weeks. Not time, exactly—but something older. Like we were stitched together long before the Hollow ever touched this world. He’s wild when he wants to be, all teeth and groaned curses, but right now? He’s slow. Greedy. Like he wants to map every inch of me, again and again, until he’s convinced he didn’t miss anything.

The second one—his illusion, his shadow, his match—isn’t gentler. But he’s sharper. Precise. When he drags his tongue over the inside of my thigh, it’s a study. When he kisses lower, he does it like he’s unraveling a spell—like I’m a thing to be undone.

Their mouths don’t clash. They alternate, one kissing me while the other presses into the curve of my hip or bites the edge of my shoulder. I’m not sure which one groans when I roll my hips up to meet the second’s mouth, but I know which one moans when I grab the first by the hair and pull his mouth to mine.

I kiss Silas like punishment. Like surrender. Like I’ve decided this is how I want to die—tangled in heat and spit and the way his hands shake when I suck his lower lip between my teeth. I feel the illusion-Silas’s tongue flick against me again—deliberate, relentless—and I break the kiss on a gasp that turns into a curse.

“Fuck—”

I choke out, because I’m being worshipped by two of the same sin, and it’s not soft. It’s not clean. It’s filthy and perfect.

The one between my legs hums in satisfaction. The vibration rips through me, and I almost come undone then and there—but Silas knows me better than that. He shifts, sliding down until they’re side by side now—one keeping his mouth on me, the other pressing his fingers inside, curling them just right, learning me all over again like it’s the first time.

I grind into them, into him, desperate now, hand clenching the sheet above my head, the other tangled in hair—his or his, I don’t know, I don’t care.

I’m not moaning words anymore. Just sounds. Just raw, broken pieces of myself cracking apart under the weight of pleasure. Of them.

And when I come, I don’t float.

I shatter.

Back bows. Mouth open. Soundless scream. My legs tremble so violently I almost fold in on myself, but they hold me down—he holds me down. Both of him. Lips on my throat. Hands on my waist. Whispers against my ear that I barely catch—

“You’re mine.”

“No one touches you like this.”

“Never letting you forget this.”

I don’t get a break. I barely have time to breathe before I’m flipped, spread beneath them again, and Silas—the original—grabs my jaw and kisses me like he’s marking territory. His cock rubs against my thigh, hard and leaking, and the duplicate pulls back just enough to watch, eyes glowing with the same hunger.

“Which one of me do you want first?”

Silas growls against my throat.

I laugh, breathless.

“You think I’ll survive one of you?”

They both grin.

“No,”

the second says.

“But that’s what makes it fun,”

adds the first.

He enters me without ceremony. One hard, slow push that makes my entire body arch off the bed, and his mouth is at my ear again, breath hot, voice guttural.

“You’re so fucking wet. Is that for me, or just because you liked being worshipped by both of us?”

I try to answer, but he starts to move—deep, hard strokes that steal every word before I can form it. My nails rake down his back. The second Silas kneels behind me, kissing the curve of my spine, the edge of my shoulder, murmuring praise like he’s got nowhere else to be except worshipping me while I’m being fucked by himself.

And gods help me—I love it.

I come again with a scream, clutching the Silas inside me like I’ll drown without him. And when the second one shifts lower, dragging his tongue along the spot where we’re joined, I nearly black out.

“Don’t stop,” I beg.

The other version lifts his head, licking his lips, eyes shining. He presses a kiss to my thigh, then to my knee, then trails up until his mouth is at my ear, lips brushing over the shell of it as the other Silas drives into me from behind now, pulling me up to my knees.

“She wants more,”

he murmurs, voice all shadow and promise.

“She’s greedy tonight.”

“I like her greedy,”

the first says.

“I want to see how much she can take.”

They move like they’ve rehearsed this. Like they knew this night would happen. One hands me back and forth to the other, and I let them. I let them ruin me. Every time I get close to catching my breath, they do something else—another touch, another taunt, another kiss that turns my bones to fire.

When Silas pulls out, the second one’s already behind me, sliding in with a hiss, and my scream is ragged—because I can feel him, even if he’s not real in the way the first is. Because the illusion is made from the original. His magic. His need. His obsession.

And I take it all.

His hand wraps around my front, fingers finding my clit like he knows it by memory—and of course he does—and the moment he starts rubbing, slow and vicious, I’m shaking. Splintering. My body lights up with pleasure, raw and ugly and endless.

“Please,”

I gasp, and I don’t know what I’m asking for. Mercy. More. The end of me.

The second Silas groans, deeper this time, and the illusion starts to flicker. He’s not fading yet, but the magic is unstable, stretched thin by how much I’m giving him. By how much I’m taking.

The first grabs my face, kisses me again, and I bite his lip hard enough to draw blood.

“I love you,”

the one at my ear whispers suddenly. Quiet. Serious.

It unravels something in me. Not the orgasm—gods, that’s already close—but the way he says it. Like he can’t help it. Like it slips out between groans and laughter and all that affection he hides behind grins and ridiculous lines.

The real Silas is beneath me now, and I can feel him—hard and throbbing and trembling under my thighs. I ride him slow at first, watching his eyes flutter, his mouth fall open, that barely-there breath of my name like it’s already too much.

“Fuck, pretty girl,”

he gasps, hands gripping my hips like he's afraid I'll vanish if he lets go.

“You’re gonna ruin me.”

“You ruined yourself,”

I murmur, grinding down harder, gasping when he bucks up to meet me.

“This was your idea.”

He tries to smile. Fails. His head falls back with a groan as I clench around him, and I know he’s close—so close—but he won’t let himself come yet. Not without—

The clone slides behind me.

Still real in every way that matters. Still him. Still heat and worship and desperation.

He presses up close, chest against my back, his cock sliding between my ass cheeks, slick from the mess we’ve already made of each other. One hand snakes around to rub my clit in tight, merciless circles.

“You should see yourself,”

the clone breathes, lips against my ear, and gods, he sounds just as wrecked as the one inside me.

“Taking both of me like you were made for this.”

“I was,”

I whisper.

Silas groans—both of them. The real one’s thrusts turn erratic, deeper, harsher, his control starting to shatter. The illusion’s hips begin to grind against me from behind, his cock slipping between the slick press of our bodies, desperate for friction, for anything.

“You’re gonna make us both come,”

the one beneath me says, voice cracking.

“You’re gonna—fuck—, please—”

The clone cuts in, teeth dragging over my shoulder.

“I’m so close—gods, I can feel him through you—I can feel us—”

It’s too much.

The one in me. The one behind me. Their hands. Their mouths. Their need.

I come again—loud and raw and violent—with both their names on my tongue, nails digging into Silas’s chest hard enough to bruise. I shake through it, shuddering so hard I nearly collapse, but they catch me—he catches me. Always.

And then he lets go.

The real Silas thrusts up once, twice, and gasps my name like a prayer torn from the throat. I feel him come—deep, hot, pulsing inside me—and I swear the world tilts. His hands tremble as they clutch my hips, holding me in place like I’m the only thing anchoring him to the world.

The illusion chokes out a moan against my skin, his rhythm stuttering as he ruts against me desperately, and then he comes too—spilling hot between us, across my back and thighs, breath ragged, lips still murmuring broken fragments of my name like it’s all he’s ever known.

The one beneath me kisses his way up my stomach, chest, mouth, and then I blink—and there’s only one again. Just Silas.

Breathing hard. Hair wild. Hands cupping my face like I’m the most fragile, sacred thing he’s ever touched.

“You okay?”

he asks, voice raw.

“I’m going to kill you,”

I whisper.

His grin is dazzling.

“But was it worth it?”

I yank him down by the front of his hair and kiss him like I want to drown him in it.

When we break apart, I straddle his hips, still panting, still flushed, and feel him—hard again. Already.

His eyes widen.

“Wait—are we—?”

“Oh, we’re not done,”

I say, dragging my nails down his chest.

“You wanted to give me everything.”

I roll my hips against him and he moans—moans, the kind of sound that should be illegal. “I did.”

“So,”

I say, sinking down onto him slowly, watching his jaw clench, his eyes flutter shut.

“prove it.”

He opens his mouth, probably to say something clever, but I grind down hard, and he chokes on his own pleasure.

“Okay,”

he rasps.

“Yep. Dead. I’m dead. This is death. You’ve killed me.”

“Silas.”

“I die happy,”

he whimpers.

And gods, I love him. Even as I ride him hard enough to make him forget his own name. Even as he begs me for kisses, for more, for everything. Because this isn’t about control.

It’s about us.

And Silas?

He’s never more himself than when he’s worshipping me like this.

His hands flutter at my hips, fingertips pressing just hard enough to remind me he’s still here—barely. Every time I roll my hips down, he shudders like I’ve pulled another piece of him loose. His mouth opens on a broken sound that was probably my name, but it melts into a groan before it escapes his throat.

“,”

he pants, voice low and ragged, the edge of desperation weaving through it like a frayed thread.

“Sweetheart… I don’t… I can’t—”

“You can,”

I whisper, bracing my hands against his chest, nails dragging through the sweat-slicked muscle.

“You’re going to.”

I don’t speed up. I don’t give him the release he’s begging for. Not yet. I want to feel it build again. I want to feel him quake beneath me, fall apart under me—not because he’s being pushed, but because he’s choosing it. Choosing me.

His eyes roll back for a beat, and when they open again, they’re hazy and glazed but locked on mine. There’s something in that look that makes my breath catch—not lust, not entirely. It’s deeper than that. Cracked open. Raw. Like he doesn’t know how to worship me gently, so he gave me everything else instead.

“I love you,”

he says it like a confession he’s carried for years. Like he’s just now realizing he’ll never say it enough times for it to feel real.

“I know,”

I whisper, leaning forward until my mouth grazes his jaw.

“Now show me.”

He groans when I clench around him, the sound torn straight from his chest like it costs him something. His hands slide up my ribs, trembling, reverent, like he needs to feel every inch of skin to remember this is happening—that I’m real, that I’m not a dream. I let him touch. Let him hold. But I don’t give him control.

My hips move with a steady rhythm, deep and grinding, every thrust hitting full and hard, dragging him deeper with each roll of my body. He arches beneath me like he’s trying to stay in it, like he’s losing himself at the same time he’s clinging to me.

“, please,”

he gasps, and there’s something about hearing him beg that lights me on fire. Not because I want power over him. But because I know how much it takes for him to let go like this.

“You’re doing so good,”

I murmur against his ear, biting gently.

“Let go for me. Come again. I want to feel it.”

He shudders violently. His fingers dig into my hips, not to guide me, but to ground himself as I grind down hard and slow, again and again, until he’s panting my name like it’s the only word he remembers.

And then he breaks.

He comes with a shout muffled into my shoulder, body shaking beneath me, arms wrapping around my waist like he’s trying to fuse us together. I feel every pulse of it inside me, hot and thick, his breath catching like he can’t keep up with how much I’ve taken from him.

I don’t stop right away.

I slow. Ease him through it. Rocking softly now, letting his orgasm stretch out as long as he can bear it, kissing his forehead when his eyes squeeze shut and he lets out a helpless, choked laugh.

“You’re trying to kill me,”

he says, voice wrecked and slurred with bliss.

“No,”

I whisper, still moving just enough to make him tremble.

“I’m trying to remind you who you belong to.”

His arms tighten around me.

“You.”

Always me.

And as the aftershocks ripple through both of us, as the sweat cools and the room settles and he exhales into my neck like I’m his entire world—I know I’ll never want anyone else like this.

Because only Silas would let himself fall to pieces just to make me feel whole.

Ambrose

Her hand catches mine mid-throw. It’s soft, but not timid—steady in a way that makes my whole arm pause, like even my fury listens when she speaks without speaking. Her fingers wrap around my wrist, the cool brush of her skin somehow grounding.

“Why are you rage-throwing your phone?”

she asks, and I hate how calmly she says it, like I’m a toddler caught mid-tantrum and not a man who could command the wind to flay cities bare.

I turn toward her slowly, biting down the immediate impulse to rip the phone in half anyway, if only out of principle. She’s wearing that hoodie again—Elias’s, of all things. Too big for her, sleeves hiding her hands. Her eyes are soft with amusement, not pity, which is probably the only reason I haven’t shattered the screen yet.

“This contraption,”

I hiss, holding the device between us like it’s cursed.

“It refuses to obey.”

raises an eyebrow, mouth twitching at the corners.

“You tried giving it an order?”

“I told it to take a photo,”

I grit out.

“And it mocked me. Flashed at me like it was going to obey—and then showed me my own face. Just my face. Nothing behind me, not what I was aiming for. A mockery. An insult.”

She laughs. Actually laughs. It’s not loud, but it’s real, and it lands low in my chest, spreading like something dangerous. “Ambrose,”

she says gently, pulling the phone from my hand like I’ve handed her a live grenade.

“You opened the front-facing camera.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

She’s biting her lip now, trying not to grin.

“It means it was taking a selfie.”

I stare at her. “A what.”

“A picture of yourself,”

she says, deadpan now, like she’s trying to keep it clinical and not burst into another fit of laughter.

“People take them. On purpose. Sometimes in bathrooms.”

I narrow my eyes. “Why.”

“Because…”

She shrugs.

“Humans are vain. And you’re pretty. I’m shocked you haven’t taken fifty already.”

I say nothing. Mostly because my brain has short-circuited on the word pretty.

She flips the phone around, taps a few things, and suddenly the camera is showing what’s actually in front of us—the courtyard, the fading golden stretch of light against the stonework, the shadowed sprawl of Daemon Academy’s southern halls. The Hollow still hums beneath us, faint but insistent, like it’s never truly gone.

“There,”

she says, handing it back.

“Now you’re in control.”

I take it slowly, suspicious. The image shifts as I move. I can see her in the corner of the frame now, small and bright against the somber gray. I tap the little white circle. It clicks.

The picture captures her perfectly—caught mid-turn, hair sweeping over her shoulder, eyes glancing back toward me like she knows something I don’t. Like she always does.

I don’t say thank you. I never do.

But I don’t throw the phone either. I pocket it and look down at her hand still on my wrist.

“You stopped me,”

I murmur, voice low.

“That’s twice now.”

Her fingers slide away, slow and deliberate.

“Someone has to keep your dramatic ass from declaring war on technology.”

I step closer. Close enough that the warmth of her reaches me before our bodies do.

“You really think it would be a war?”

She looks up, steady and unfazed.

“No. You’d win. But you’d be alone.”

And fuck. That’s the cruelest thing she could’ve said.

“Not if you’re still standing here,” I reply.

She blinks, once. Then smiles, but not the kind that reaches her eyes.

“Careful,”

she murmurs.

“You almost sounded like you meant that.”

I don’t reply. Not out loud. But I don’t walk away either.

And she doesn’t make me.

“It was Silas,”

I admit, shifting on the stone bench beside her like it’s an act of surrender.

“Said I was ‘socially obsolete.’ That I couldn’t keep ignoring progress forever. Then he shoved it into my hand like it was a gift and not a weaponized headache.”

She laughs, drawing one leg up beneath her, facing me like this is nothing—like this is just a normal conversation and not the unraveling of my carefully cultivated superiority.

“You let Silas give you technology. That was your first mistake.”

I watch her mouth as she says it. I always do. It’s the way she speaks—low and knowing, like every word might be a test. Might be the one that makes me crack.

“You’re human,”

I mutter, trying not to sound like I’m accusing her of it.

“You’re supposed to be good at this kind of thing.”

She tilts her head.

“That’s racist.”

I blink at her.

She grins.

“Species-ist. Whatever. Just because I’m human doesn’t mean I came out of the womb texting and downloading apps.”

“Apps?”

She snorts. “Exactly.”

I watch her reach for the phone—my phone—and swipe across the screen like it’s nothing, fingers moving with infuriating ease. The screen comes to life in her hand. Traitor.

“I hate that thing,”

I mutter, not caring that it sounds childish.

“It doesn’t listen to me.”

“Maybe you’re not charming enough.”

I turn toward her, slow.

“I could make the bricks beneath your feet whisper your name for eternity.”

Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t look away.

“I know. But can you make a group chat?”

I stare.

She cackles. Actually cackles, like she’s enjoying this.

“What’s a group chat,”

I say flatly.

Her eyes gleam.

“It’s like summoning a demon, but worse. Everyone you’ve ever regretted talking to in one place, texting at all hours, sending memes and chaos.”

“And you do this voluntarily.”

She shrugs, still smiling.

“Only with people I don’t want to kill.”

I study her. The way she leans into the humor, but never hides behind it. The way she makes it easy to sit next to her, like I’m not a man made of sharp edges and decay. Like she isn’t the kind of girl who could bring an empire to its knees with a look.

“I’d rather speak in person,” I murmur.

“I know,”

she says, quieter now.

“That’s why I answered you when you knocked.”

And there it is. The thing she does—softens a moment with just enough weight to make it feel like confession. Like truth. She never demands answers, never drags the darkness out of me. She just makes room for it. For me.

My gaze drops to her hand again, resting casually on her thigh. So easy to touch. So easy to forget the risk. I don’t reach for her. But I don’t move away either.

The phone chirps again—an obnoxious little trill that sounds far too pleased with itself for something so small and smug. I glare at it like it personally offended me, because it has. Repeatedly. And now it's doing it again, lighting up in ’s palm like she’s its chosen one.

She glances at the screen and her brows lift.

“You’ve got messages.”

“I don’t speak technology,”

I say flatly, and her smile is almost pitying.

“You touch souls and command firestorms with a word, but this…”

she waggles the phone.

“is too much for you?”

“It disrespects me.”

She bites back a laugh as she turns the screen toward me, her fingers brushing my wrist in the process. That one, small contact feels like pressure beneath the skin. Familiar. Dangerous. I don’t flinch.

“Read it,”

she says, voice honeyed with amusement.

The screen glows with two names. The first is from someone calle.

“Waffles4LIFE.”

The second, equally offensive, i.

“BigMeatEnergy.”

I blink.

chokes on a laugh.

“What…what the fuck does that mean?”

“Silas and Elias,”

she says, too casually, like it makes perfect sense that these imbeciles are using aliases fit for a toddler hopped up on sugar and existential dread.

“They named themselves after breakfast food and meat?”

’s shoulder shakes with silent laughter.

“You’re in the group chat now.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t consent.”

“You didn’t read the terms and conditions.”

“What are the terms and conditions?”

“Don’t block them. Don’t delete them. Respond with emojis when they get clingy.”

The phone chimes again. Another message appears under Waffles4LIFE.

“Bro. What r u wearing. said u were trying to take pics. Is it happening? Is the fit sexy? Show me shoulder.”

I blink again, slower this time.

“What does that even—”

Another ding.

BigMeatEnergy.

“Ambrose, I know u don’t want to talk but I just want you to know ur hair looked hot today. Like villain-in-a-gothic-horror-novel hot. Don’t let anyone dull ur murder sparkle.”

I make a sound. It might be pain. It might be despair.

wheezes beside me, tears building at the corners of her eyes.

“You should see what they send to Riven.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Delete me.”

“You can’t escape them. Ever.”

I stare at the phone. Then at her.

And then—because there’s no dignity left in this moment—I sigh, lean back against the stone wall, and mutter.

“Fine. Show me how to send a…meme.”

Her face lights up like I just offered her the world. Maybe I did. Maybe this is what surrender looks like. Not battles lost, or kingdoms burned—but letting her sit closer. Letting her take my hand, and guide me through madness.

The screen is too damn small. My fingers are too large—or perhaps too precise—to function within the confines of this ridiculous contraption. I type slowly, deliberately, correcting myself every third word because the keyboard has a mind of its own, rearranging my insults like it thinks it knows better.

I finally manage to cobble together something sharp enough to cut.

“Stop messaging me. You’re both insufferable. I don’t care about your milkshake rankings, Silas. And Elias, if you ever send me another shirtless selfie captioned ‘Ur move, Daddy,’ I will find a way to hex your mirror.”

Satisfied, I hit send.

The phone dings before it even finishes the message animation.

Waffles4LIFE.

“Too late. Already sent a second one. Ur welcome.”

A picture follows. It’s Elias with bedhead, middle finger up, eyes half-lidded in what can only be described as calculated lethargy. His chest is bare. I don’t ask why.

Another ping. This one from Silas.

Waffles4LIFE.

“Eli says he’s sexier when he’s sleepy. I told him he’s just crusty. Ambrose, pls confirm.”

Another ping.

BigMeatEnergy.

“Also Ambrose, we’re planning your outfit for the play. I’m thinking sheer. Vengeful. Open-chest moment. Thoughts?”

A muscle ticks in my jaw.

I attempt to respond, but they’re faster. Another notification lights up before I even reach the keyboard.

Waffles4LIFE.

“WAIT. Can we match? Me, you, and Elias in sheer outfits? Triad energy. The crowd won’t survive.”

BigMeatEnergy.

“Don’t fight it. Just say yes. Let the slay happen.”

I turn the phone toward , who has the gall to be laughing silently, her mouth pressed into the side of her hand like that’s going to make it less obvious.

“This is harassment,”

I tell her.

She shrugs, unbothered.

“This is friendship. And unfortunately, you're part of it now.”

I should shut it off. I should toss it off the balcony and pretend it never existed. But the screen dings again, and my thumb—traitorous bastard that it is—taps the message open.

BigMeatEnergy.

“Ambrose. Do u think I’m pretty. U have to answer. This is the law.”

Waffles4LIFE.

“BE honest. I curled my hair.”

Gods.

I stare out the window, wondering when exactly I lost the war. Probably the moment I agreed to let explain how the camera works. Or maybe it was earlier than that. Maybe it was the first time she looked at me like I wasn’t just something dangerous—but something worth saving.

Another ding.

Waffles4LIFE.

“If you don’t respond in 30 seconds, I’m sending Riven the nudes meant for you.”

I start typing again.

Gods help them. Because I won’t.

The typing field mocks me. A blinking cursor and my inability to keep pace with two absolute menaces who seem to have weaponized the concept of messaging. My thumbs are too methodical. My irritation too steady. I try again—If you send me nude photos of yourself…—but the words vanish into a storm of notifications before I can hit send.

The screen pings again. And again. And again.

Waffles4LIFE.

“I shaved. Just for you.”

BigMeatEnergy.

“His legs are smooth like silk, Ambrose. I’ve touched them. You should too.”

Another message blinks through before I can recoil properly.

Waffles4LIFE.

“You can’t stop the thirst trap. You can only hope to contain it.”

I drag a hand down my face.

’s snort beside me is poorly stifled, her lips twitching as she leans over to catch another glimpse of the screen. She doesn’t even pretend to hide her amusement anymore. Her voice is syrup-laced and smug.

“I think they’re flirting with you.”

“No,”

I reply flatly.

“They’re harassing me.”

“You sound like someone who hasn’t accepted he’s in a group chat with two narcissists and no off-switch.”

I finally manage to type three words—Don’t test me. But as I go to send it, Elias drops in a photo of himself, shirtless again, holding up a sign that says: "TESTED. FAILED. READY FOR PUNISHMENT."

lets out a choked laugh, burying her face into my shoulder as I stare blankly at the image, weighing the odds of smashing the phone versus hurling myself off the balcony. The phone pings again.

BigMeatEnergy.

“Should we make a calendar? Like a Sexy Sin Calendar? Elias wants to be February but I think I’m more of a Leap Year moment. Mysterious. Rare. Absurdly hot.”

“,”

I murmur, voice gravel low.

“if I give you this device, will you kindly drop it into the Hollow?”

She grins, stealing the phone and typing something with a speed I can’t fathom. I try to snatch it back, but she’s already sent it.

Whatever she wrote makes both men explode with more messages, because the phone starts vibrating violently in her palm like it’s possessed.

She hands it back with a devil’s smile.

“I told them you were blushing.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You are now.”

I consider setting the entire building on fire. Instead, I shove the phone into the cushion beside me and sit back, hands laced behind my head like I’m not seconds from immolating myself.

Her shoulder presses against mine, warm and easy.

“They do it because they like you, you know.”

“They’re idiots,” I mutter.

She moves like it’s nothing. Like the gravity in her doesn’t bend everything around her.

The light from the screen catches the curve of her cheek as she leans in, forehead brushing mine like it’s casual. Innocent. Like she doesn’t know what that does to me. I don’t flinch. I don’t move. But every part of me goes silent.

The scent of her—something soft and clean and fucking addictive—slides through my senses as her finger finds the camera button. I don’t think she expects me to look. But I do. Because of course I do.

The shutter clicks. And she pulls back just slightly, still close enough I can feel the heat of her. She glances at the screen, lips quirking into something private. Something only I’m allowed to see. Then, without asking, she taps twice and hands it back to me.

The screen lights up. And there it is.

A picture. Us.

I don’t smile in it—of course I don’t. My expression is distant, unreadable, the same sharp edge I carry into every meeting, every room, every war I’ve waged. But she’s there beside me, head tilted toward mine, lashes low, mouth soft. And she’s smiling.

Like I’m something she wants.

And now this image is my background.

I stare at it too long. My thumb hovers over the screen, not to delete it—though I should—but to try to understand what the fuck she’s done.

doesn’t speak. She just watches me with that knowing look. Like she knew I wouldn’t erase it. Like she knew this would stick.

“You can change it back,”

she says eventually, voice quiet, unbothered.

“I know.”

My own voice is low, frayed at the edges. I don't move to do it.

Because I don’t want to. Not yet.

She rises without ceremony, stretching like a cat, casual and lethal in the same breath.

“Don’t let Silas see it. He’ll crop himself in and send it to the press.”

“There is no press.”

“He’ll make one,”

she tosses over her shoulder, already heading for the door.

The moment stretches once she’s gone. I let my head fall back against the wall, phone in hand. The picture glows up at me like a reminder, like a threat. The kind I might welcome.

.

Always soft. Never harmless. And now she’s in my phone.

Worse—she’s in my goddamn background.