Page 152 of The Sin Binder's Vow

He turns, then. Just like that. Back to his sandwich. Like he didn’t just carve a warning into my ribs.

I leave.

But the words stay.

And they taste worse than regret.

They taste like her name.

Lucien’s office still smells like cedar and ink and too many secrets. I grab my keys off the edge of his desk, where Riven apparently tossed them like they were garbage instead of the last piece of machinery in this place I still trust to obey me. The door creaks as I shut it behind me, the sound dragging Riven’s voice back into my skull like a blade slipping between my ribs.

You made her cry.

I should be able to shake that. I’ve watched kingdoms burn without blinking. I’ve made gods bleed and smiled while doing it.

But I can’t fucking stop picturing her—the way her eyes looked last night when I left. Not shattered. Worse. Like she expected it.

The garage is silent when I step in. The bike waits, its lines sleek and familiar, the leather seat still indented from the last ride. It’s not magic. Not like the rest of this cursed place. It runs on grit and fuel and the quiet promise that speed still means freedom.

I slide the key in. Twist.

The engine growls awake.

I don’t move.

I sit there, hands gripping the handlebars, my body coiled like it knows what I should do and hates me for resisting.

She’s just a fucking girl. That’s what I tell myself. Over and over. Beautiful, yes. Dangerous, yes. But I’ve seen this before. I’ve lived through worse.

Except Ididn’t.

The last one—Keira—tore through me like I was made of promises and bone. And Luna… she never even had to try.

I see her crying. Not loud. Not theatrical. Quiet, in that way grief always is when it’s real. In the shower. Water masking the sound, but not the shape of it. Her spine curved, not crumbling, just… folding in on itself. Like she was trying to be small. Like she was trying not to beseen.

Fuck.

I kill the engine.

The key clicks out.

I’m on my feet before I decide to be.

Outside, the wind has teeth. It cuts down from the ridges that guard Daemon’s perimeter like sentinels that have forgotten which side they’re on. The courtyard’s still cracked from the last ritual, the stones glowing faintly where the bindings failed to hold. It’s quiet here now, the kind of quiet that isn’t peace—it’s pause.

And there she is.

Perched on the low wall near the old observatory, one leg swinging like she’s trying to pretend she’s not waiting. Her hair’s up, but there’s a streak of ash along her jaw like she’s been sparring or sifting through something that didn’t want to be found. She’s got a mug in one hand—steam curling from it lazily—and her eyes are fixed on the horizon like she’s looking for a version of herself she hasn’t become yet.

I stop walking.

Just stand there, watching her, the way someone might watch a prayer they don’t believe in but still mouth the words for.

She turns before I speak.

Her gaze lands on me, cool and unreadable, but not surprised. She always knows when I’m near. Like her bones are wired to it. Like the pull isn’t something she decided to feel—it’s just alwaysthere.

“Lost?” she asks, voice casual. But there’s a sharpness to it. A blade behind the softness.

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