Page 205 of The Sin Binder's Vow

“They don’t know what’s good for them,” she says again, like it’s a mantra that will make it true if she speaks it enough. Like she’s convincing herself more than me.

“Andyoudo?” I snort, folding my arms across my chest as I take a step closer. Not because I need to assert power—but because I’m done letting her act like she has it.

She lifts her chin like royalty, the wind catching the ends of her silver-threaded hair as though the Hollow itself is still trying to romance her. “I’m ageless,” she says softly. “Immortal. I’ve walked through time, bled into its seams, carved my name into its walls. I’ve ruled cities, rewritten bloodlines. I have three of the Sins already. They came willingly.”

I laugh.

And I don’t hide it.

It’s not cruel. But it cuts. Because I don’t believe her for a second, and the worst part is—she knows I’m right.

“If that were true,” I say, “you wouldn’t need tosayit.”

Her pupils narrow, but she doesn’t speak. So I go on.

“Lucien isn’twithyou. He’s survivingaroundyou. Orin’s silence is louder than your performance. And Caspian—” I glance at him, catching the way he looks away the moment our eyes lock. “Caspian’s just waiting for the first excuse to rip that crown from your pretty little head and see if it fits better on mine.”

“Careful, little thing,” Branwen purrs, but the sweetness is gone now. Her voice is glass, brittle at the edges. “You’re not the only one with claws.”

“Maybe not,” I say, my smile sharper than hers. “But at least mine weren’t bought.”

She shifts her weight, barely perceptible—but enough. Enough that the three men flanking her don’t mirror it. They stay where they are, frozen in that silence that doesn’t speak of loyalty—but of holding.

Of being held.

“What is it, Branwen?” I ask, voice dropping as I move closer still. “How desperate do you have to be toforcesomeone to stay? Is that what it’s come to? Binding men with fear and power because love’s stopped answering when you call?”

And there it is.

A flicker in her gaze. Not rage.

Recognition.

She’s not just angry.

She’slosing.

The wind stills like it’s waiting for her reply, and the pillar groans behind her—a low, pulsing sound, like a creature waking from centuries of silence.

Branwen steps forward, her dress sweeping the grass, her beauty so sharp it might cut open the sky if she lifted her arms and screamed.

She’s trying to use Lucien’s power through me. Or maybe against me. The line between the two is thinner than breath.

Her words are sharp, poised like a command meant for an audience, not for effect. “Kneel,” Branwen says, and the magic laced beneath it is unmistakable. The weight of it slams against my chest like an iron-tipped spear, but I grit my teeth, hands curling into fists at my sides. I don’t move. I won’t.

I won’t kneel.

It’s not defiance born of pride. It’s instinct, ancient and buried deep in the bone, and if I give her that gesture—if I let my knees touch the dirt—it’s over. She’ll have won something far worse than a physical display. She’ll think she’s broken me.

She hasn’t.

But the sneer curling at her lips tells me she’s just getting started.

“Lucien,” she says smoothly, and I swear the air sharpens around his name. She doesn’t look at him—she doesn’t need to. That’s the kind of power she’s used to wielding. Hands-off, but absolute. “Remind her what she is. Remind her whatyouare.”

Lucien doesn’t speak. For a heartbeat too long, he doesn’t even breathe.

I glance at him, and it’s a mistake. His eyes catch mine—not the ice-and-fire glare he wore back when we fought side by side, but something older. Haunted. Resigned. And still, he steps forward. One slow, reluctant step that ripples the ground beneath his boots like the Hollow is listening.

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