Page 201 of The Sin Binder's Chains

They strip me faster than her hands ever could.

I shove my fingers through my hair, trying to buy myself a second of control. “So… good start. Solid entrance. Only slightly humiliating. No one has died. Yet.”

She doesn’t smile. Not really. Just tilts her head and watches me like I’m some volatile mix of magic and stupidity, which, yeah. Accurate.

“This is serious to you?” she asks softly.

I nod. Then I ruin it.

“With the unfortunate side effect of me sounding like a virginal cultist proposing with a chicken bone and a magic circle, yeah.”

She walks past me, slow and deliberate, fingers brushing my arm just enough to ignite my nerves.

“You want to bond,” she says, like she’s testing the weight of it in her mouth.

I turn to face her. “I do.”

My voice is quieter now. Because the air feels charged. Different.

Her gaze flicks down to my hands, and for a moment, I swear she’s imagining it, what it would take. We both know what the ritual looks like. The cut across the palm. The blood mingling. The words that would shift everything in my chest. And then, the final seal. Skin on skin. Breath tangled between moans and power.

It’s not romance. It’s claiming. And it’s permanent.

Her fingers graze mine. Not enough to bind. Just enough to hint.

“You understand what it means?” she asks.

I nod, but my throat is tight. “Yeah. That you’ll be in my head, my bones. That you’ll feel me, even when you don’t want to. That I’ll feel you. And that if I’m not careful, I’ll start begging without knowing it.”

“Do you want that?”

“I want you.” My voice drops. “I want to stop pretending like this thing between us is some casual mistake.”

There’s a flicker in her eyes. Something dangerous. Something soft.

“You’re not ready,” she says, not cruel, just honest.

“Probably not.”

“And still, you asked.”

“Because,” I breathe, “you’re worth the risk.”

The words sit between us, raw and heavy.

And then, she steps closer. Her hand slides up my chest. Her mouth brushes my ear.

“When I take you, Elias,” she whispers, “there won’t be anything left to hide behind.”

I swallow hard. “Promise?”

She turns away with a smirk, walks toward the bed like she didn’t just detonate something inside me.

And gods help me, I follow.

She stops at the desk. Not the bed. Not the mirror. Not the perfect, chaotic spiral of where this should be headed. She reaches into the drawer like she’s done this before, too smooth, too practiced, and pulls out a knife.

Not a ritual blade. Not something sacred or dipped in spell oil. Just a wicked, curved thing with a silver edge and a grip that looks worn from use.

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