Page 31 of The Sin Binder's Chains

I tilt my head slightly. “It means that she will never be what you thought she was.” I keep my voice steady, patient. “It means she is ours, just as we are hers.”

Layla’s lips press into a thin line. “What do you mean by ours?”

I hold her gaze.

Then I say, precisely, “She is bound to us in every way that matters.”

Silence. A slow, dawning comprehension in Layla’s eyes.

Her jaw tightens.

“So let me get this straight,” she says, voice clipped. “You and your, Sin friends, just…what? Collect my sister? Pass her around? You all just get a piece of her?”

A flicker of irritation rises in me, but I school my expression. I was expecting this. Of course I was expecting this.

“No,” I say evenly. “We do not take. We are not conquerors.” I lean forward slightly, my voice dipping lower. “We were made for her, Layla. Do you understand what that means?”

She doesn’t answer.

I continue.

“She is not some girl caught in a web of hungry men. She is our balance. Our opposite. Our keeper. And before you let your human sensibilities cloud your judgment, you should know, ” I let my voice sharpen slightly, “she is not suffering.”

Layla exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over her face. “You’re telling me she wants this?”

I stare at her. “I am telling you she was born for this.”

She doesn’t look at me, but she doesn’t argue either.

Good. Because soon, she may have to decide whether or not she can handle the same fate.

She stands abruptly, the movement sharp, restless, a sudden burst of energy she doesn’t know what to do with. She paces across the room, muttering to herself, hands tangling in her hair as if she can physically pull an explanation from the air.

I watch.

I wait.

Because this is how humans process things, they stall, they deflect, they try to put the impossible into the mundane.

“Oh my god,” she groans, stopping mid-stride. She turns to face me, eyes wide with something between disbelief and impending hysteria. “How the fuck is Luna supposed to bring seven guys home for Christmas?”

I blink.

Layla throws her hands up. “Do you even know what Christmas is?”

I consider the question. “It is a mortal holiday in which humans attempt to buy each other’s affections with material offerings.”

Layla stares. “That, okay, honestly? Not wrong.” She resumes pacing. “But do you understand how this looks? Do you have even the slightest idea how insane this would be?”

I tilt my head. “Enlighten me.”

She scoffs, spinning to face me again. “Alright, picture this,” she says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Luna comes home for the holidays. Our parents, our extended family, everyone is there. And guess what? Surprise! She didn’t just bring a boyfriend. No, no, fuck that normal shit. She brought seven of them.”

I fold my hands in my lap. “Go on.”

Layla throws herself onto the couch, rubbing her temples. “They’d have a collective stroke,” she mutters. “Like, what would they even do? Set an extra plate? Seven extra plates? Are you guys supposed to take turns carving the turkey? Draw straws on who gets to sit next to her?”

I watch her spiral, amused. “We do not eat mortal food.”

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