Page 161 of The Sin Binder's Chains

Luna

I shouldn’t care how he looks at me. I shouldn’t notice the way his shoulders slump when he thinks I’m not watching, or how he can’t seem to meet my eyes now that everything’s fractured between us.

But I do.

And it makes me furious.

Because I should be furious. I am furious. They’re talking about sacrificing Layla like she’s a goddamn chess piece. Like her body, her life, and her soul can be bartered for convenience. And not one of them, not one, had the decency to say it to me outright. Instead, they voted. Whispered. Plotted. And when it came time to break the news, they threw Silas at me like he was a balm. A distraction. The one they knew I couldn’t bear to hurt.

But Elias? He was part of that. The smirking, unbothered one. The one who makes it seem like nothing matters, like I don’t matter. And now here he is, sulking in front of me, quiet in a way that makes me more unsettled than when he’s cracking jokes. Because Elias is not talking is Elias feeling, and that’s always a little dangerous.

"You’re upset,” he says, voice low. Careful.

“No shit,” I snap, crossing my arms so I don’t punch him. Or worse, reach for him. “They want to offer up my sister. You don’t get to play surprised.”

He winces, and it’s real. Not performative. Not the sarcastic flinch I’ve seen a hundred times when I call him out. This is smaller. Sharper. Something that carves at the edges of his expression, like he’s trying not to let it show how much that truth cuts him, too.

“I didn’t want this,” he says, finally meeting my gaze. “But you know how Lucien is. Once he decides something’s strategic, the rest of us are just... roles to play.”

“And you just played yours?” I ask, bitter and cold. “You voted for it. You stood there while they decided my sister was disposable.”

His jaw tics. “You think I didn’t lose sleep over it? You think I’m not still losing sleep over it?”

“Why should I care if you lose sleep?” I ask, stepping closer. The pull between us shivers, subtle but undeniable. It doesn’t care that I’m angry. It doesn’t give a damn that I want to shove him away. It only knows that he’s mine. That part of me wants him to hurt because he matters.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t smirk. And that, more than anything, makes my stomach twist.

“Because you always care, Luna,” he says, soft but unflinching. “Even when you’re ready to set us on fire.”

His voice is stripped of humor now, stripped of the armor he usually wraps around himself so tightly no one can touch him. I hate that it disarms me. I hate that I see the truth in him when I want to only see the betrayal.

“Do you even like me?” I ask, my voice breaking without permission. “Or am I just something to fuck when you’re bored? A distraction until the next time you and Silas come up with something reckless to keep yourselves entertained?”

That finally makes him flinch. His mouth opens, then closes. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and for a second, just a second, he looks lost. Not cocky. Not amused. Just... wrecked.

“I like you too much,” he says quietly. “That’s the problem.”

I don’t respond. I can’t. Not when everything inside me is twisting, rage and need, betrayal and longing, so tightly I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

Elias shifts his weight like the ground beneath him is made of needles. Hands slide into his pockets, but it’s not casual. It’s a retreat. A stall tactic. And I know him well enough by now to recognize the exact second the sarcasm leaves and the truth threatens to claw its way out.

He doesn’t look at me.

That’s how I know he’s serious.

“If it were just sex,” he says finally, voice low and raw, “I wouldn’t still be here.”

His words hit softly, but they land hard, like a knife dressed in velvet. My breath catches, not because I’m surprised, but because I feel something in me recoil and reach for him at the same time. It’s easier when he’s making fun of my boots or rolling his eyes mid-orgasm. It’s easier when we’re nothing but friction and sweat and mouths too busy to say anything real.

But now?

Now he’s letting me see him.

“I’m not good at this,” he mutters, kicking at the dirt like it’s personally offended him. “The talking. The feelings. The… whatever-the-fuck-this-is with you.”

“This?” I echo, folding my arms, trying to keep my heart from barreling out of my chest. “You mean lying to me? Letting them send Silas to tell me they’re offering my sister to a monster?”

“I didn’t vote to hand her over,” he says, sharp but not defensive. Just tired. “But I didn’t fight hard enough. None of us did.”

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