Page 39 of The Sin Binder's Vow

I steal a sip from Luna’s tankard—because hers has less foam and more flavor, obviously—and ignore the way my stomach flips when her lips part like she’s about to scold me. I interrupt before she can. “You know, I’m starting to think Lucien’s just afraid you’ll make a better plan than him. He can’t have the girlandthe brains.”

Silas coughs on his drink, snorts, and mutters, “You just mad he putyounext to me instead of himself.”

“You think I’m not honored?” I deadpan. “Sitting beside the embodiment of envy, watching him fight the urge to drink all my ale and steal all my lines.”

He raises a brow. “And yet, here you are. Still not funny.”

I turn back to Luna, resting my chin on my hand, letting my eyes drag over her like I’m too lazy to hide the fact that I’m memorizing her again. Her hair’s a mess, there’s blood on her sleeve, and she looks like she hasn’t slept in days. Still the most beautiful fucking thing in this cursed realm.

“You tired?” I ask softly. Not like a question. More like a prayer I don’t want answered.

She doesn’t say anything, but she nudges her knee against mine under the table. Not flirty. Not sweet. Just a reminder.I’m here. I’m not leaving.

Gods, I hate how that makes something sharp twist in my chest.

Lucien glances over then—his gaze cutting, calculating. As if he knows exactly how badly I want to drag her into the shadows ofthis tavern and forget the world. As if he’s keeping count of how many of us she has now. How many she could lose.

I drain my tankard and slam it back down on the table harder than I mean to. “I swear if he makes us split up again, I’m locking myself to your ankle, Luna. You think I’m joking—try me.”

Silas snorts. “Make it kinky and I’m in.”

“Shut up.”

Across the room, Orin stands. And just like that, the mood shifts.

Silas straightens. I do too.

I jab my finger in Orin’s direction like a gossipy barmaid spotting a scandal across the room. “Would you look at that?” I whisper to Luna, tilting my tankard toward the ancient menace with all the reverence of a man spotting a unicorn. “The scholar himself. The immortal stoic. The Grandmaster of Grump. Getting himself a drink.”

Luna’s lips twitch, and I catch it before she hides the smile behind her own mug. It’s the small victories that keep me sane.

“I thought his blood ran on brooding and riddles,” I continue, watching Orin exchange a few curt words with the tavern keeper, who wisely doesn't argue when a seven-foot slab of mystery demands ale. “That man drinks knowledge, not barley. This is history in the making.”

Silas leans across the table, his face a perfect mirror of shock and delight. “We should celebrate. Immortal solidarity. I say we toast to Orin’s moral collapse.”

“Tempting,” I reply, eyes still on Luna, “but if he goes full chaos and starts dancing on tables, I’m leaving you both here. I love anarchy, but there are limits.”

“You have limits?” she murmurs, voice dry, teasing.

My smirk pulls wide. “Only when it comes to historical trauma and Orin inebriated.”

Luna nudges me under the table again—barely a brush of her boot to mine, but it lands like a punch to the chest. She grounds me in ways I never asked for. And now I’m addicted to it. To her.

Across the room, Orin returns to his table with a tankard clutched in one large hand, his expression unreadable. Lucien says something sharp, and Orin doesn’t reply—he just takes a long drink. His eyes flick briefly to ours, to Luna, and then away again like nothing matters.

But I saw it.

So did she.

“He’s going to do something reckless,” I mutter, more to myself than anyone. “That’s what that look means.”

Luna shifts beside me, and this time her hand lands on my thigh—innocent only if you ignore the way it makes me forget how to breathe.

“I hate when they keep us in the dark,” she says, low and cold.

I want to tell her she’s not in the dark. Not with me. But I don’t, because I’m a fucking coward when it comes to being serious with her. I’d rather make her laugh, distract her with cringeworthy pickup lines and stupid bets about what kind of underwear Riven owns—if any

Instead, I drain my ale, lean closer, and whisper, “We could always go start a fight, get kicked out of here. That’d force them to fill us in.”

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