Page 44 of The Sin Binder's Chains

Severin does not look amused.

Which is precisely why I keep going.

"You know," I continue, tapping my chin, "I think I should be losing my mind right about now. I should be pacing, growling, throwing a fit." I smirk, watching him from under my lashes. "But I’m not, am I?"

Severin stills.

And I see it, the flicker of unease he tries to hide behind all that cold, ruthless control.

Because he knows what I am. I am envy, and envy is nothing but hunger wearing a pretty face. I do not like being caged, but I also do not like being denied what’s mine.

I hum, tilting my head. "What’s wrong, Sev? Getting nervous?"

Severin finally turns, pinning me with that black-hole stare of his.

"You think she’ll save you," he says quietly.

I grin, sharp and vicious.

"I don’t think, Sev." I feel the bond flare, alive, electric, undeniable. "I know."

Severin doesn't flinch, doesn’t snarl, doesn’t lash out like most would when faced with something they don’t want to admit. He just stands there, quiet and watchful, and that makes it all the more satisfying when I let my power coil through the room, seeping into the cracks of his stone-faced composure like venom through a wound.

“Careful, Sev,” I murmur, leaning forward, elbows braced against my knees, chin resting on my clasped hands. “You’re starting to look a little… human.”

His gaze sharpens, but I don’t stop. Because I feel it. The thing he won’t say out loud, the ache buried so deep inside him he’s convinced himself it isn’t there.

But it is. And I can taste it. Envy is a hunger, an open, gnawing thing that never sleeps. I am made of wanting, of reaching, of starving, and Severin, oh, Severin, he is a feast all on his own.

He thinks he wants power. He thinks he wants revenge. He thinks he wants to burn the world to its knees. But I know better.

The air in the room warps. A slow, insidious shift as the mirrors along the walls ripple, their surfaces bending not to reflect, but to reveal.

Severin stills. And then he sees her.

Not Luna. Not quite. But close enough.

A woman stands within the glass, her image flickering, grainy like a memory that’s never quite clear. She has Luna’s blood, but not her face. Her hair is longer, darker. Her mouth softer. Her eyes wrong in a way that tells him, not yet.

Not her.

But something inside him still pulls.

Severin’s jaw tightens.

“I wonder…” I hum, tilting my head, letting the words slither slow and saccharine from my tongue. “What do you see when you look at her, Severin? Is it control?” I tap my fingers against the arm of the chair. “Or is it something else?”

The glass warps again, distorting, and for a single, shattering second, I feel it.

His envy. Not of me. Not of Luna. Not of power. But of something smaller. Softer.

Love.

Severin shatters the mirror.

His fist collides with the glass so hard it explodes outward in a rain of fractured silver, shards cutting his knuckles, embedding deep, but he doesn’t feel it. Because this isn’t pain. This is denial. This is rage, curling in on itself like a dying star.

He turns on me, slow, controlled, a blade gliding from its sheath.

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