Page 87 of The Sin Binder's Vow

“We’re gorgeous,” he says with deep conviction, flexing both arms. “We should be illegal. Actually—wait. I think we were, in three kingdoms and a province.”

I scoff. “Only because you started that cult.”

“Hey, they started it,” he says, grinning like he wasn’t absolutely the reason half of them shaved their heads and tattooed his name on their thighs. “I just showed up.”

He elbows me lightly. “You know Luna’s gonna walk in and think we’re insane.”

“She already knows we are.”

“Yeah, but this’ll confirm it.”

We go quiet for a moment. A soft breeze pushes through the cracked window, stirring dust motes in the air. And for all the flexing and joking and shirtless posturing, I catch the shift in his eyes. That flicker of worry neither of us wants to say out loud.

We lost Lucien and Orin. Again.

And we got Ambrose back—but he’s different. Haunted. Cold in a way that even I can’t joke around.

I drop my arms. “Do you think we’ll get them back?” I ask, voice low.

Silas doesn’t answer right away. Just meets my eyes in the mirror. “We have to,” he says, quietly. “Luna’s already lost too much.”

The truth hits harder than I expect.

I think about her—curled up on what’s left of the couch, pretending not to feel everything through our bond. Pretending she’s not holding it all together so we don’t fall apart.

And gods, I miss her already. Even when she’s right downstairs.

Silas claps me on the back with a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Now put your shirt back on before I start writing odes to your nipple symmetry.”

“You’ve already written them,” I mutter.

“Page five is a masterpiece.”

We laugh. It’s not enough to fix anything, but for a second, it’s enough to breathe.

There’s a knock.

Soft. Innocent.

Deadly.

And then her voice—Luna’s voice—threads through the wood like sin itself. “Elias?”

Fuck me sideways.

Panic flares. I whip around the bathroom like it’s a crime scene and the evidence is my missing shirt. I check the counter, the hook, under the damn sink. Nowhere. The traitorous bastard has vanished like it knew Luna was coming.

“I’ve got this,” Silas says heroically, like we’re storming a battlefield instead of answering a door half-naked.

And he does. He opens it. Shirtless. Smirking. Flexing.

Asshole.

I’m still standing in front of the mirror, shirtless myself, but now with the added disadvantage of looking like I’ve been caught mid-strut in a Calvin Klein ad. So I do the only logical thing left.

I flex too.

Not casual-flex. No, no. I commit. Biceps out. Abs tight. Jawline locked. If I’m going down, I’m going down as a fucking Greek statue.

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