Page 160 of The Sin Binder's Vow

The fitting room mirror has a gilded serpent wrapping around its frame, its tongue slivered into a sigil I don’t recognize. Every surface in this place feels charmed—enchanted, haunted, or just expensive enough to make you think twice about breathing near it.

The first dress I try on is a disaster.

Sheer in all the wrong places, slit to the hip like it was stitched by someone with a vendetta against fabric. The color is a sickly green that makes me look like I’ve been raised in a crypt without vitamin D. I step out of the dressing room anyway because I know exactly what I’m doing.

Ambrose is perched on the velvet chaise across from the fitting stalls, legs stretched out, one arm hooked over the back like he’s in no rush to pretend he doesn’t enjoy this. The lighting slants across his cheekbones in a way that would make lesser girls abandon common sense on sight.

His eyes lift as I step into view. Pause.

Then—he laughs.

Not a smirk. Not a scoff. A real, short, surprised sound that slips past his lips before he can stop it.

I raise my arms like I’m showing off a crime scene. “What do you think? Ready for the execution, or should I add heels that scream ‘medieval tragedy’?”

“You look like a cursed garden.”

“Perfect,” I deadpan. “I was going for necrotic nymph.”

He’s still smiling—barely, but enough. “Try again.”

The next one is worse. Blood red with feathers.Feathers.

I step out, stone-faced.

Ambrose chokes on something that might be a laugh or a death wish. “That is not a dress. That is a vendetta with sleeves.”

I turn slowly in the mirror. “It’s bold.”

“It’s a war crime.”

“I kind of love it.”

“I will personally bribe the Council to ban you from entering the theater if you wear that.”

I raise a brow. “Is that an actual threat, or just your version of flirting?”

His mouth flattens, the amusement sinking into something deeper. And it hits me—that look. Thatbriefhesitation before heremembers to stay unreadable. I go back into the dressing room without waiting for a response. I don’t need it.

The next one I try on… it’s different.

Black. Simple, but not plain. The fabric clings like it was made for me, dipping low in the back, cut high at the thigh. The neckline is sharp, the stitching brutal. There are silver threads sewn into the seams—barely visible, but enough to catch the light like whispers of a blade.

I stare at myself in the mirror.

I don’t look like prey in this.

I look like the thing they should’ve run from.

I step out, slow this time. Not for effect, but because something about this feels final. Like stepping into a role I never auditioned for but can’t refuse.

Ambrose doesn’t laugh.

He doesn’t smile.

He stands.

That alone says everything.

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