Page 192 of The Sin Binder's Vow

“I support shutting the fuck up,” I mutter, grabbing another fry and dunking it with a lot more violence than necessary. Across the booth, Luna tries to keep a straight face, but her lips twitch, betraying her. She doesn’t look at Silas. She doesn’t need to. She’s just waiting for the next explosion.

And Elias, the bastard, leans in with the laziest grin. “I think the one with the corset made eye contact with Silas. You two have a future.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Silas whispers dramatically. “I’ve always wanted to be someone’s tragic backstory.”

Elias gives him a slow blink. “Youaremy tragic backstory.”

“I knew it!” Silas looks triumphant. “That’s why you won’t stop dreaming about me.”

“I don’t dream about you. I wake up screaming and assume it’s residual trauma.”

“You’re so into me.”

“Please die.”

Ambrose is still quiet beside her, but I catch the flicker of his eyes toward her when she laughs. He doesn't smile this time. But he watches her like she's something rare. Something maybe he didn’t think he’d get to see again.

I shift in my seat and look back at the goth kids. They're at the counter now, ordering coffee and fries. I should probably be worried. About the pillar. About Lucien and Orin. About what happens next when the Hollow inevitably rears its head again.

But for now?

I kick Silas again, just because I can.

And I eat another milkshake-drenched fry. Because the fucker was right. It’s good. And for once, everything feels like it’s not falling apart.

Silas leans in like he’s about to confess a murder or a hidden crush, voice pitched low and reverent like this is sacred knowledge and not just another brain-rotting moment of whatever the hell goes on inside his skull.

“Riven,” he whispers. “Can I get fangs?”

I don’t even bother looking at him. I keep chewing. “No.”

Silas presses a hand to his chest like I’ve just mortally wounded him. “You don’t understand. Those teens are living my truth. I saw myself in them.”

“You saw fangs and a purse that can hold two regrets and a lip gloss. That’s not an identity crisis, it’s Tuesday at Daemon Academy.”

“But Ineedthem.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Ido,” he insists, pressing both palms flat against the table like this is some kind of formal debate. “And a coffin purse. Also black eyeliner. I tried to steal Luna’s for a costume—”

“She slapped you,” I finish flatly, because of course she did.

He sighs, wounded. “Sheslappedme, Riven. Open palm. No hesitation. And then she told me she was keeping it in case you needed to touch up your soul.”

That gets a snort out of Elias, who hasn’t looked up from his fries but clearly caught every word. “He’s not goth enough for that eyeliner. He’s more... cursed stepbrother trying to summon a demon to fight his emotional issues.”

Silas gasps. “That isso rude.And also accurate. But rude!”

“Why the fangs, Silas?” I ask, finally giving him a glare I hope burns the impulse out of his body before it becomes permanent. “What part of you thinks you’re qualified to carry that aesthetic?”

“I want to make new friends,” he says simply, gesturing toward the goth kids at the counter, who are now taking selfies with their milkshakes like it’s a ritual offering. “They’re my people.”

“You arenottheir people,” I mutter, and Elias groans beside me, dragging a hand down his face.

Silas ignores us both. “I just feel like... if I had a bat necklace, some lace gloves, and a name like Mortem—”

“Stop.”