Page 29 of The Sin Binder’s Vow (The Seven Sins Academy #3)

My knees hit the marble and the sound echoes, too loud, too real, like the world has tilted just to slam me into it. The pain isn’t vague—it’s targeted. Precise. A blade, red-hot and cruel, lodged right through the softest part of me. I don’t scream. I can’t. My body won’t let me. It just folds, trembling and silent, as the magic inside me riots—snapping outward like lightning trying to find ground.

I taste copper.

And then—voices.

They aren’t near, not yet. But I feel them. Elias’s curse punches through the air first, sharp and strangled, the bond between us flaring like a livewire touched to water. Then Riven’s voice, ragged and enraged, calling my name like he could drag me back with it. Silas—he’s already running, the sound of him coming like a small storm down the corridor, yelling for someone to get out of his way or he’ll make them regret ever existing.

I didn’t call them. Not on purpose.

But I must’ve dropped the wall. Opened everything.

The bonds are flaring. All of them. And I’m laid out like a beacon.

Silas is the first to reach me—skids into a crouch so fast he nearly crashes into the wall. His hands are on me instantly, one cupping my face, the other pressing against my heart like he could claw the pain out of my chest himself.

“—fuck—what happened, baby, talk to me—”

Elias barrels in next, drops beside me on the other side. No snark. No joke. Just panic, pure and cold in his silver eyes. His hands hover uselessly for a second before he pulls mine into his lap and starts muttering curses under his breath, frantic and sharp like a prayer offered to the wrong gods.

Riven doesn’t speak when he gets to me. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong.

He just drops to his knees behind me and pulls me into him, his arms caging me like the world might try to steal me out of his hold. His breath is hot against my temple, his heartbeat a hammer in his chest. He presses his forehead to mine, not saying a word. But the bond between us sings so loud it drowns out everything else.

Silas whispers something I don’t catch. Elias runs his fingers down my spine like he's trying to calm a wild thing. And Riven—Riven just holds me tighter every time my body shudders.

And somewhere under it all, beneath the pain and the pounding of three hearts that are bound to mine, I realize—This wasn’t just magic. This was a message. Something’s coming. Or maybe… something is here.

My breath rattles in my chest as the pain drags its last claw through my ribs, then vanishes. Not a fade. Not a slow retreat. Just—gone. Like it had done what it needed to. Left a warning branded into every nerve ending.

I shove off Riven’s chest before he can tighten his grip again, planting a palm on Silas’s shoulder as I push to my feet. I’m dizzy, throat dry from not screaming, and I’m still vibrating with the aftershock of pain—but I know where it’s coming from now. I can feel it, pulsing like a heartbeat not mine.

“The pillar,”

I breathe, already walking.

Elias moves first, tugging on Silas’s hoodie to yank him along. Riven is a shadow at my side, steps perfectly matched to mine like he’s ready to anchor me again the second I falter. Ambrose lingers behind, slower, like he’s already reading whatever scene we’re about to step into. Like he’s seen it in a dream. Or a memory.

We move through the cracked halls of Daemon Academy like revenants—drawn forward by something deeper than instinct. Magic clings to the walls now, the kind that wasn’t always there. It’s in the shadows. The stone. In the bones of this place. The Hollow never left—it simply learned how to hide.

The courtyard opens up in front of us, moonlight bleeding across the stone. And there it is.

The pillar.

And them.

Lucien stands like he’s carved from judgment itself—sharp suit, sharper gaze, his expression unreadable even as his blue eyes lock on mine. Caspian lounges, smirking like he’s amused we actually showed up. Orin is utterly still. Regal. Eternal. His presence heavier than the others, like time bends around him just to stay out of his way.

And between them…

Branwen.

She’s wrapped in silver-gray, her smile too wide, too soft. Like this is a tea party, not a reckoning. Her beauty is impossible—elegant, inhuman. Not a crack in her veneer. But I know her now. I’ve felt her rage. Her cruelty. That smile is a weapon.

“,”

she calls, voice honey and knives.

“You’ve grown.”

Riven moves first, stepping in front of me, his body half-turned like he’s preparing to strike without a word of warning.

“Get behind me,”

he mutters, low.

“No,”

I say, stepping beside him.

Branwen’s voice winds through the courtyard like smoke—slow, curling, toxic. She doesn’t raise it. The way she says my name, with that honeyed condescension, that echo of ownership—it’s a noose wrapped in velvet.

Her smile doesn’t falter, but her eyes sharpen, catching on every movement I make like talons on silk. She’s still beautiful—cruelly so— but there’s something underneath now. Desperation lacquered in charm. And it’s that desperation that makes her dangerous.

"It seems we have a little mix-up," she says, as if this is some social inconvenience—an accidental dress code violation at a gala. "Because I was here first. And you've taken something from me, ."

She tilts her head, studying me like I’m a puzzle with a piece she used to own.

"And I’m going to have to take it back."

The words hang in the air, poised, waiting for blood to respond.

I don’t glance at the others, though I feel them bristling behind me. Silas has gone still—which for him is like the world pausing its spin. Riven’s breathing has changed, controlled and shallow, a prelude to violence. Elias mutters something under his breath that sounds lik.

“Oh, this bitch again,”

and Ambrose… Ambrose hasn’t moved at all. But I can feel the focus radiating off him like heat. Calculating. Parsing. Choosing.

"You’re going to have to be more specific," I say, letting my voice meet hers, soft but not sweet. "Because if you’re here for attention, I can promise you—it’s beneath you."

Branwen laughs, and it’s the kind of sound that used to make courtiers weep and soldiers defect.

But not here.

Not anymore.

"Dear girl," she says, like I’m still the barely-there thing she could bend in the Hollow. "I’m not here for attention. I’m here for what’s mine. And if you think your little bonds—your toys—can keep me from it, you’re far more na?ve than I thought."

She glances toward the Sins like they’re already hers. Like their loyalty is a performance they’ve simply forgotten how to end.

My jaw tightens. Not because I believe her. But because part of her does believe it.

And that? That’s the problem.

"You didn’t lose them," I say, stepping closer, my words low and steady. "You broke them. And now they don’t want to be put back together by you."

Her smile fades.

Caspian shifts beside her, finally looking something other than amused. Orin doesn’t move, but his gaze flicks to mine, unreadable. And Lucien—he watches me with something deeper than disapproval. Almost... grief.

"That’s not your choice to make," Branwen whispers.

"No," I agree, nodding once. "It’s theirs."

Branwen’s smile falters, the edges cracking like porcelain under too much weight. Just a blink—but I see it. The flicker. The fracture.

“They don’t know what’s good for them,”

she says again, like it’s a mantra that will make it true if she speaks it enough. Like she’s convincing herself more than me.

“And you do?”

I snort, folding my arms across my chest as I take a step closer. Not because I need to assert power—but because I’m done letting her act like she has it.

She lifts her chin like royalty, the wind catching the ends of her silver-threaded hair as though the Hollow itself is still trying to romance her.

“I’m ageless,”

she says softly.

“Immortal. I’ve walked through time, bled into its seams, carved my name into its walls. I’ve ruled cities, rewritten bloodlines. I have three of the Sins already. They came willingly.”

I laugh.

And I don’t hide it.

It’s not cruel. But it cuts. Because I don’t believe her for a second, and the worst part is—she knows I’m right.

“If that were true,”

I say.

“you wouldn’t need to say it.”

Her pupils narrow, but she doesn’t speak. So I go on.

“Lucien isn’t with you. He’s surviving around you. Orin’s silence is louder than your performance. And Caspian—”

I glance at him, catching the way he looks away the moment our eyes lock.

“Caspian’s just waiting for the first excuse to rip that crown from your pretty little head and see if it fits better on mine.”

“Careful, little thing,”

Branwen purrs, but the sweetness is gone now. Her voice is glass, brittle at the edges.

“You’re not the only one with claws.”

“Maybe not,”

I say, my smile sharper than hers.

“But at least mine weren’t bought.”

She shifts her weight, barely perceptible—but enough. Enough that the three men flanking her don’t mirror it. They stay where they are, frozen in that silence that doesn’t speak of loyalty—but of holding.

Of being held.

“What is it, Branwen?”

I ask, voice dropping as I move closer still.

“How desperate do you have to be to force someone to stay? Is that what it’s come to? Binding men with fear and power because love’s stopped answering when you call?”

And there it is.

A flicker in her gaze. Not rage.

Recognition.

She’s not just angry.

She’s losing.

The wind stills like it’s waiting for her reply, and the pillar groans behind her—a low, pulsing sound, like a creature waking from centuries of silence.

Branwen steps forward, her dress sweeping the grass, her beauty so sharp it might cut open the sky if she lifted her arms and screamed.

She’s trying to use Lucien’s power through me. Or maybe against me. The line between the two is thinner than breath.

Her words are sharp, poised like a command meant for an audience, not for effect. “Kneel,”

Branwen says, and the magic laced beneath it is unmistakable. The weight of it slams against my chest like an iron-tipped spear, but I grit my teeth, hands curling into fists at my sides. I don’t move. I won’t.

I won’t kneel.

It’s not defiance born of pride. It’s instinct, ancient and buried deep in the bone, and if I give her that gesture—if I let my knees touch the dirt—it’s over. She’ll have won something far worse than a physical display. She’ll think she’s broken me.

She hasn’t.

But the sneer curling at her lips tells me she’s just getting started.

“Lucien,”

she says smoothly, and I swear the air sharpens around his name. She doesn’t look at him—she doesn’t need to. That’s the kind of power she’s used to wielding. Hands-off, but absolute.

“Remind her what she is. Remind her what you are.”

Lucien doesn’t speak. For a heartbeat too long, he doesn’t even breathe.

I glance at him, and it’s a mistake. His eyes catch mine—not the ice-and-fire glare he wore back when we fought side by side, but something older. Haunted. Resigned. And still, he steps forward. One slow, reluctant step that ripples the ground beneath his boots like the Hollow is listening.

Then it hits me.

His dominion.

It doesn't land so much as consume, rising like a tide that comes from within me, from the place in my chest where his power touched mine once and never truly let go. It’s not pain. It’s annihilation masquerading as reverence. My limbs go heavy, trembling under the force of a will that doesn’t belong to me.

I drop to one knee, snarling.

But not both.

The pressure builds, dragging at my spine, screaming in my blood. The world tilts, warps. This isn’t just power—it’s betrayal, rewritten in real time by someone who’s being forced to weaponize a bond that was never meant to chain.

Branwen watches like a goddess on the edge of creation, tilting her head with a smile that’s all teeth and triumph.

I meet her gaze from where I’m kneeling. One knee. One breath. And I spit the words like blood against her throne.

“You think submission means strength,”

I say, my voice wrecked but steady.

Her smile drops, and I feel the rage ripple through her. Power lashes out again—but this time it doesn’t land on me.

Because I’m not alone anymore.

Ambrose moves first.

There’s no sound, no warning—just a shift in the world like something ancient cracking down its spine. One moment I’m locked in a silent war of wills with Branwen, and the next, he’s between us. Impeccably composed. A wall in a well-cut coat. But I see it—the flicker of possession crawling beneath his skin, the way his fingertips twitch like he’s already claimed the ground she stands on and is debating whether or not to burn it.

Then Riven is there, sharp-edged and coiled with barely contained fury, a heatwave in the form of a man. He doesn’t just step in front of me—he stalks into place like he’s been waiting for this moment. His voice cuts the air, low and venom-laced.

“Back the fuck off.”

Branwen’s mouth parts in amused surprise, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She studies him like a puzzle missing a piece she thought she’d swallowed long ago.

And then Elias.

Gods. Elias moves like he regrets it, like he’d rather be anywhere but here, but he still drops into formation at Riven’s side. His smirk is lazy, crooked, already daring her to try something.

“I mean, I’d say play nice, but I don’t think you know how.”

He glances at me without looking at me.

“Luce, you good? Still got all your limbs?”

Before I can answer, Silas bursts into the space between them like a chaotic star, shirt unbuttoned, hair windswept, somehow holding a glittery dagger and a half-eaten croissant. He’s grinning like this is his favorite kind of party—the kind that ends with blood on velvet.

“Did someone say group pose?”

he asks, then tosses the croissant over his shoulder and assumes a stance like he’s auditioning for a soap opera.

But when he glances at me, the humor flickers—just for a beat. His eyes shift, serious beneath the absurdity.

They're shielding me.

And it shouldn’t make me feel anything. Shouldn’t twist the bond tighter around my ribs. But it does. Because these are the ones who don't ask why I'm standing—just make sure I can keep doing it.

Branwen crosses her arms, head tilted, smile gone sharp.

“How sweet,”

she says.

“All your little pets trained so well.”

Riven takes a step forward, but Ambrose’s hand lifts—barely. It’s enough. Stillness falls again, but this time it’s dangerous. Contained.

Ambrose turns his head slightly, not looking at me, but speaking like I’m the only one who matters.

“Tell her,”

he says, voice cool and calm as glass.

“how this ends if she keeps pushing.”

And I do. Because my voice is steady again. Because I'm standing, and I didn’t kneel. Because the pain’s not gone—but it’s mine now.

“You can call them pets,”

I say, stepping between them, between the past and the now.

“But they chose to stand beside me. And that’s something you’ve never had, Branwen.”

Lucien flinches beside her.

Branwen doesn’t speak like someone issuing a threat. She speaks like she’s reading the end of a story she’s already memorized—confident, calm, cruel in her certainty.

“You have to die,”

she tells me, the words slipping from her mouth like silk over a blade.

“They were mine long before they were yours. You’ve taken what was never yours to keep. So now, I’ll take it back.”

The dusk stretches behind her like it’s holding its breath, and all I can do is stare at the three figures flanking her—They don’t move at first.

They just stand there like shadows unmoored, silhouettes sculpted from regret.

But when she tilts her head, just slightly, they obey like puppets, the strings she’s yanked too tight now visible in every reluctant step they take.

Lucien steps forward first.

The air around him hums with residual authority—his hand lifts, slow and deliberate, and the void splits open like it’s been waiting for him.

His blade materializes before him, sleek and dark and hungry.

The hilt bears the marks of old gods and older sins, and for a second, it hovers, as if even it is reluctant to be used against me.

But Lucien closes his hand around it anyway.

His knuckles whiten.

His eyes stay downcast.

Caspian’s magic follows, more chaotic in nature, less disciplined than Lucien’s, but just as dangerous.

His whip slithers into view like a summoned serpent, coiling up his forearm with a hiss of static and shadow.

It pulses once, and the ground beneath him trembles.

There’s no smirk on his lips.

No quip curled at the corner of his mouth.

Just silence—and Caspian’s silence is more terrifying than any blade.

Orin is last.

He doesn’t summon a weapon.

He becomes one.

His body shifts subtly, the veins along his arms lighting with that eerie, corrupted glow I’ve seen only when his magic is fully awake.

The shadows that cling to him aren’t just darkness—they’re memory.

History.

Magic that’s endured too long in a world that was never meant to hold it. His power doesn’t lash out. It mourns. And the ache in my chest isn’t from fear. It’s from the grief I feel radiating from him like it’s leaking through his skin.

I can see the way Lucien’s jaw trembles as he finally lifts his gaze to meet mine.

In the slight shake of Caspian’s wrist as he readjusts the coil at his side.

In the way Orin closes his eyes for half a heartbeat, as if bracing himself for what’s coming.

They don’t want this. Gods, they don’t want this.

But they’re going to do it anyway.

I feel Riven step closer, his presence at my side like a live wire. He doesn’t raise a weapon, not yet, but his body is coiled with fury, with a promise. His voice, when it comes, is low and guttural.

“They don’t want to hurt you,”

he growls, the words shaking with the force of his restraint.

“They don’t want this.”

“I know,”

I whisper back, unable to look away from them.

And that’s the tragedy, isn’t it?

Because the world doesn’t care what we want.

Branwen stands just behind them, her expression serene as ever, like she’s watching pieces fall neatly into place. She thinks this is checkmate. But I’m not done playing.

And even if I was… they raised their weapons for her.

Now I need to show them who I really am.

To be continued…….