Page 161 of The Sin Binder's Vow

His eyes drag down and up again, unhurried, like he’s counting sins. When his gaze meets mine, it’s not hunger. Not even possession.

It’sreverence.And I hate that it makes me ache.

“This one,” I say, voice softer than I mean it to be.

Ambrose nods. “That one.”

I don’t look away.

Neither does he.

But I feel it—that edge between us sharpening. Not dulled by pain or resentment, just… refined. More dangerous than before.

I turn back toward the fitting room, fingers brushing the hem at my thigh.

And I don’t miss it—his voice, low and rough, just before the curtain falls shut.

“You’ll kill them in that.”

And that’s the thing.

Them.

Ambrose said it like he isn’t included. Like he’s already decided where he stands—on the outside, watching the fire, not in the burn of it. Like the others falling is inevitable, and he’s only here to witness the ruin. Maybe shape it. Maybe enjoy it.

But notstopit.

The dress clings to my skin, fitted to the hollows and curves like it knows me intimately, and still—it feels like armor I wasn’t meant to wear. Because the war isn’t over. Not even close. And what’s the point of dressing for the performance if half the cast is missing?

I stare at my reflection one last time.

I look like power. Intention. A threat dressed as elegance. But none of it matters if I can’t get them back.

Orin would tell me what this feeling is.

He’d name it—wrap his voice around it like a spell and make it manageable. Make it makesense.He’d remind me that grief is clever. That guilt wears different faces. And that loyalty isn’t about proximity—it’s aboutweight.

He’d say something maddeningly cryptic, then touch my cheek in that infuriating, achingly gentle way that makes me feel seen without being dissected.

And gods, Imiss him.

His absence isn’t sharp—it’s quiet. A void threaded through every moment. We’ve only been without him—and Lucien, and Caspian—for a few days. But already it feels like the seams are unraveling. Like our rhythm is offbeat.

I haven’t heard Lucien’s voice. Haven’t been mocked by Caspian’s drawl or soothed by Orin’s steady wisdom.

I don’t even know where theyare.

Branwen has them. That much we know. And yet here I am—buying dresses, sipping cursed lattes, pretending thisperformance means something when the people who built this rebellion with me aregone.

The curtain slips closed behind me as I change back into my regular clothes, the dress folded over my arm like a promise I’m not sure I want to make.

When I step out, Ambrose is waiting. Still silent. Still composed.

But something in my face must shift—somethingmustshow—because he straightens.

“What is it?” he asks.

I don’t answer right away. I don’t have the words. Or maybe I do and I’m afraid they’ll come out as grief instead of fury.

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