Page 170 of The Sin Binder's Vow

He doesn’t just appear. Hemoves,like he’s been waiting, watching, measuring his moment to interrupt us with maximum effect.

Tall. Sharp. His suit is obsidian velvet, tailored within an inch of its life, and it somehow makes everyone else around us look underdressed. His hair is midnight dark, swept back like he knows it’s meant to frame that sculpted, unfairly perfect face. But it’s not his looks that stall my breath.

It’s his presence. He radiates power the way storms radiate pressure. You feel it in your skin first—then in your bones.

When he smiles, it’s devastating. Not because it’s kind.

But because it’scalculated.

He bows—not a lazy nod or half-smirk like so many of the others do. A full bow at the waist, elegant, deliberate, like we’re not standing in a theater full of predators, but at a court where everything means something.

“Forgive me,” he says, voice dipped in some sort of rich, unplaceable accent. The kind that belongs to old bloodlines and forbidden cities. “For not introducing myself at the manor. It was... discourteous.”

Manor.

Shit.

This is him.

The cloaked one. The one I couldn’t see clearly. The other Council member who stood next to Keira like her shadow wore flesh. I try to speak, but he steps forward before I can find words.

“My name,” he continues smoothly, “is Klaus Valen. And it is both an honor and a regret to finally meet you like this.”

He doesn’t reach for my waist. Doesn’t dare brush skin beyond what’s acceptable.

But he takes my hand.

Slowly.

Like he’s claiming something. And then hekissesit. Not a graze. Not a brush. A deliberate press of lips, reverent and cold all at once, to the back of my hand. My skin goes electric.

Behind me, I feel it.

Silas goes still.

Elias inhales sharply, but whether it’s amusement or danger, I can’t tell.

Ambrose steps forward half a breath.

And Riven—gods, I feel him like a storm behind me. Heat. Fury. Every part of him woundtight.

Klaus lifts his head, gaze locking onto mine like he’s already inside it. “I look forward,” he murmurs, “to seeing what you make of all this.”

Then he’s gone. Melted into the crowd with that same unnatural grace, leaving only the echo of threat wrapped in politeness.

“He’s lucky he walked off,” Silas mutters beside me, voice low but not soft. There’s too much heat in it for softness. “Five more seconds and Riven would’ve buried him under the floorboards. Right between orchestra and lighting cues.”

I don’t respond. Not because I don’t agree. But because I can stillfeelKlaus’s lips on the back of my hand. That deliberate, possessive press. Cold, elegant power disguised as courtesy.

It’s not that it scared me.

It’s that I didn’t flinch.

And maybe that’s worse.

Silas’s fingers brush mine for half a second—like he’s checking I’m still real, still warm, stillhisin whatever unspoken way that word has begun to mean. I don’t take his hand. But I don’t pull away either.

The aisle narrows as we approach the steps leading to the private box. The lights shift—deepening into crimson and gold like the theater itself knows who’s arrived. Like it’s reconfiguring around us.