Page 85 of The Sin Binder's Chains

My darling spiteful little brother.

"Oh, devastating," I admit, placing a hand dramatically over my chest. "Every second, a wound. Every breath, agony."

His smirk flickers, something cold behind his gaze. "Good."

I scoff, pushing myself up onto my elbows, studying him now. "Still bitter, are we?"

Malachi’s jaw ticks, just slightly. "I wonder," he muses, too casually, "if it was easier for you, knowing that when you stole, you got to keep what you took. Knowing that whatever you absorbed, whatever you touched, you could master."

I hum, considering. "And you?"

His fingers curl at his sides. "I take, and I ruin."

He doesn’t belong here.

Not in a place like this, where everything is polished and lovely, where nothing is cracked or ruined.

But that’s the problem with Malachi, he ruins everything.

I don’t lift my head.

I barely acknowledge him.

Because acknowledging him gives him power.

And I am far too regal to stoop to that level.

Instead, I sigh deeply, lazily. "They must be desperate if they sent you."

Malachi exhales, the sound disdainful, like just being in my presence offends him. "Do you ever shut up?"

I do not dignify that with a response.

Instead, I flick a lazy hand toward the door. "I’d rather die than entertain whatever insufferable little grudge you’ve carried in here with you, so be a dear and- "

"Shut up."

The words are sharper this time, laced with something that crawls under my skin, something that shouldn’t be here.

And I realize too late what he’s doing.

The room darkens at the edges. The mirrors shudder.

His power spreads.

"Oh, fuck off," I mutter, sitting up just enough to glare at him.

He grins, all teeth, all malice, as the weight of his ability presses against me, a slithering, needling thing, creeping into my bones, twisting at the edges of my mind, whispering.

You are wasting away. You were never the strongest. You are trapped, helpless, pathetic.

I laugh.

Because that’s the difference between us, isn’t it?

Malachi is a resentful little wound, festering in his own misery.

And I?

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