Page 182 of The Sin Binder's Chains

Riven

Luna’s crying. I look away. I don’t do tears. Hers least of all.

It’s not the sound. She’s quiet, like everything in her tries to hide it. But it’s the shape of her, the way she folds in on herself. Arms around Layla, head low. She cries like it costs her something. Like giving it up makes her smaller.

It ruins me.

Lucien shifts beside me, clearing his throat like the noise can make the moment less real. He glances toward the girls, then turns away again, jaw locked.

We decided unanimously, for once, that Luna’s safer if she stays behind. With Orin, Silas, and Elias hovering close like wolves with differing degrees of guilt.

Not that Severin wants her. Not anymore.

But we’ve all seen the way he looks at Layla. The way she feels like a thread he’s already winding around his wrist.

Keeping Luna away from that is strategy. But it’s also something else.

If she came with us, if she saw what Severin left behind in that ruin, what kind of creatures slithered out of that Rift in her name, I don’t think she’d survive it. Not this version of her. Not the girl who still thinks she can save everyone.

I run a hand through my hair, drag my fingers through the nape of my neck like it’ll ground me. It doesn’t.

“I hate this,” I mutter.

Lucien nods once. “You’re not the only one.”

“She shouldn’t be here.”

“And yet she is.”

I scowl. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

We watch as Layla pulls back, wiping Luna’s cheeks with the sleeve of her coat. The sister thing is eerie, like watching Luna’s softness held in someone else’s hands.

It does something to my chest. Makes it feel too tight.

Luna steps back, arms still half-lifted, like letting go isn’t something her body understands yet.

I can’t look at her like this.

Not when I’ve spent every breath since Daemon trying not to want her. And now, after the bond, after that night, wanting her feels worse than need.

Need is primal. Animal.

Want is choice.

And I still don’t know what the fuck I’m choosing.

Layla finally turns toward us, face pale, mouth a thin line. She doesn’t look like she should be walking into a nest of half-made monsters. She looks like she should be hiding in a library, pretending the world is made of ink and pages.

Lucien straightens as she approaches. “We’ll follow the river cut until we reach the obsidian rift,” he says. “Once we’re past the Hollow’s edge, they’ll feel you. Just like you’ll feel them.”

She nods. Doesn’t speak.

I don’t blame her.

“You remember what Orin said?” I ask. “About the pull?”

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