Page 137 of The Sin Binder's Vow

“I hope she tries something,” I murmur, loud enough for Luna to hear. “I’d love an excuse to use her as a mop.”

Elias sighs. “Please don’t lick the council member, Silas.”

“No promises.”

The doors creak as someone else enters, and the moment splinters into new tension. But I stay in place, pulse steady, grin intact.

Because there are sins written into this world that no council can erase.

And one day soon, we’re going to remind them whoweare.

“It’s been handled,” Riven says, voice like scorched iron, sharp and final.

He’s flanked by Ambrose and Lorian, the three of them a triad of menace and reluctant diplomacy. Whatever tension simmered between them—whatever weapons might’ve been metaphorically or literally drawn—has settled into something taut and simmering beneath the surface.

Ambrose’s coat is half-unbuttoned, like he didn’t bother to fix it after whatever conversation happened in that godforsaken hall. Lorian looks too pleased, the kind of pleased that says compromise came at a cost, and Riven’s jaw is clenched tight enough I can hear his teeth grinding from here.

“So, what? We won the civil war and now we get to have dinner about it?” I arch a brow, crossing my arms. “Do I need to practice my curtsy?”

“You’ll be joining the public gathering,” Riven replies, dry. “A play. Then a meal after. The Council wants us seen.”

Elias groans behind me. “Ugh. Theater. My only weakness. Next to effort. And pants.”

But me? I light up.

“Wait, wait, wait—hold on.” I straighten, finger raised like a scholar with a point to prove. “Are you telling me…we get to dress up? Like, full dark academia drama? Velvet and tailored waistcoats and those boots that make my ass look righteous?”

Riven doesn’t even blink. “Yes.”

“Yes,” I echo, with more enthusiasm than the moment probably calls for. I fist-pump. “Finally. All this carnage and binding and trauma and Istillhaven’t gotten to wear my ceremonial eyeliner.”

Luna snorts beside me, and I feel her warmth press against my arm, just enough to make the bond between us hum to life, low and sweet under my skin. Her eyes glint when she glances up at me, amusement bright in the blue-gold storm of her gaze.

“Please tell me you’re going to wear your hair down with it,” she says, voice syrupy with tease.

“Oh, darling,” I purr, throwing an arm around her shoulders and dragging her close, “I wasbornfor scandalous cuffs and brooding lighting. I am the drama.”

Elias mutters, “You areadrama,” but I ignore him because Luna’s laughing now, really laughing, and that’s a sound I’d break ten of Lorian’s precious rules to hear.

Behind her amusement, though, I can feel it—under the surface of the bond. That twist of unease. She’s trying to play it off, but I know her too well. She doesn’t trust the sudden public invitation. Neither do I.

“This play…” I narrow my gaze at Riven. “Is it a play or a statement?”

“Both,” Ambrose answers, tone as smooth as it is lethal. “They want to reintroduce us to the world. Not as prisoners. As monarchs.”

“Is this when we bow?” Elias deadpans. “Because I’m not bending a single knee unless it’s on Luna’s mattress.”

“Down, boy,” I whisper, pinching his side, and he yelps, swatting at me like a cat.

But the mood sobers fast.

Because Ambrose turns, finally looking at Luna. His gaze doesn’t linger—it’s brief, assessing, calculating. But itlands. And she meets it without flinching.

“They’ll be watching her the most,” he says. “They’ll want to see how she walks. How she stands. If she flinches. If we flinch for her.”

“We don’t,” I say, quietly now. “We never have.”

Ambrose nods once. “Then make them remember it.”

---