Page 99 of The Sin Binder's Vow

And I stop walking.

I don’t turn around. Can’t. Because if I look him in the eyes right now, I might lose the last inch of distance I’ve carved between who I was and who I had to become to survive this place.

He shouldn’t have to do that.

I am the immovable will. The command. The one who breaks others before I bend. And yet—right now—I’m standing here, hands shaking at my sides, more relieved than I have any right to be.

Because I know what he’s offering.

He’s offering himself.

And I don’t think I’d survive it the way he has.

If Branwentouchesme—really touches me, not just through the bond or her voice like a dagger slipping under my skin—butclaimsme the way she’s done to him... I’ll shatter. And it won’t be a clean break. It’ll be every jagged thing I’ve ever buried ripping free from the inside out.

Caspian’s already been through it. Still pale. Still too thin. Still not whole. But he’s standing.

I turn slowly, because I have to. Because pretending I’m unaffected has always been my role in this cursed drama. And when I face him, I ask the only question I don’t already know the answer to.

“Why?” My voice comes out like gravel. “Why the fuck would you offer that?”

He doesn’t flinch. He tilts his head slightly, and there’s something ancient in his gaze now. Older than Lust. Older than Daemon. Like he remembers what it meant to love something enough todamnyourself for it.

“You wouldn’t survive it,” he says simply.

No dramatics. No martyr’s grin. Just truth.

“And you would?” I snap. “Because it looks like you’re doing fucking great, Caspian.”

He shrugs, a humorless gesture. “I don’t need to survive it. I just need to last long enough to give you time.”

The silence between us stretches razor-thin. That kind of devotion, it’s not about heroics. It’s about sacrifice. Willing, deliberate, soul-deep sacrifice. And it’s the only kind that Branwen doesn’t know how to break.

I look away first.

Not out of shame.

Out of respect.

Because I would’ve never done that for anyone.

And he just offered it forme.

“I’m not thanking you,” I say tightly.

“Gods forbid,” he mutters, voice dry, eyes suddenly too bright. “You might pull a muscle.”

I glance up. And for a moment, we’re just two Sins in a house built by the woman who weaponized every weakness we ever tried to bury.

And we’re still standing.

“For the record,” I say slowly, “if she ever tries it with you again—I’ll tear this fucking place apart to stop her.”

He doesn’t smile. But he nods once.

We walk toward the hall together, the silence between us no longer weighted, just understood. We still don’t know where Orin is.

But we know this—whatever Branwen is planning, she doesn’t get to choose which one of us burns.

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