Page 132 of The Sin Binder's Vow

She leans back, legs crossed, red silk pooling like blood around her thighs. “Lucien,” she purrs.

I don’t look at her. I don’t blink.

“Don’t be rude,” she says lightly. “Look at me.”

My chin jerks upward like it’s tethered to a string she pulls. My neck aches with how hard I fought it. But I meet her gaze.

“Much better.” Her smile is sweet poison. “Now say something nice.”

I glare.

Branwen’s eyes flash, the command curling tighter around my throat. “Lucien.”

My mouth opens.

Closes.

Opens again. “You… look beautiful.”

It tastes like ash. Like swallowing glass. Like betrayal—to myself, to everything I swore I wouldn’t become.

She hums and shifts her gaze. “Orin,” she coos, “tell me everything you’ve learned about little Luna.”

Orin stands. Slowly. Controlled. But I see the flicker in his jaw, the clench in his fists. He doesn’t want to. But he will.

Because Branwen made sure this binding didn’t just cut deep. It’s carved into the spaces we can’t reach—the places where magic and instinct blur.

“She’s growing faster than you expected,” Orin says, voice a blade wrapped in velvet. “The Hollow responds to her. Doors open. Paths clear. Her power’s becoming instinctual. She’s no longer pulling from us—she’s pulling from it.”

Branwen smiles. “Good girl,” she murmurs. And for a moment, I think she’s talking about Luna.

But no. She’s talking about herself.

Because Branwen thinks this is a win. Thinks we’re hers. That Luna can’t reach us. That she’s winning.

But she’s wrong.

Luna doesn’t need to steal us back. She just needs to keep going. To grow. Because the deeper she sinks into her power, the more this binding cracks. I can feel it.

Just beneath the surface, I’m still Lucien Virelius.

And when the leash snaps—I will make her regret ever dressing me in black.

Branwen preens like this is her coronation. Her throne is the cracked marble of a desecrated chapel, the room redolent with old power and something fouler—her perfume, maybe, or the stench of control masquerading as victory. Caspian lounges beside her, all glossy indifference and rakish charm, but I see the twitch in his jaw, the tension he hides behind that smile.

She demands devotion. He gives her mockery.

She opens her mouth for another grape, like some bored empress. And Caspian—Gods bless his petty heart—shoves it too far.

She chokes.

Not dramatically. Not gasping or clutching at her throat. Just a graceless little gag, eyes watering, fingers fluttering inelegantly as she swallows down her pride and the fruit that almost took her out.

A sound slips out of me—sharp, low, and uncontainable.

A snort.

I shouldn't. But I do. Because watching her unravel for even half a second feeds the monster in my chest that wants her on her knees.

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