Page 165 of The Sin Binder's Destiny

“I know,” he says, smiling wider now. “But it’s only because you’re trying so hard not to crawl into my lap.”

I shoot him a glare and drop my hands from my face. “Maybe I should just walk away and let you finish communing with your sun god.”

“Maybe.” He leans back on his palms, that long, powerful body unfolding like a spell. “But then you’d miss what I was about to say.”

I narrow my eyes. “Which is?”

He gestures lazily toward the sun. “I sit here because I wanted you to find me. Because I knew you’d follow the bond until you stumbled into me. And I knew when you saw me like this—uncovered, unguarded—you’d feel it, too.”

I say nothing.

“Not just desire,” he continues, voice softer now, reverent. “You feel safe with me. Even when I’m naked. Even when I say the kind of things that make you blush and want to slap me. You know I’d never take anything from you.”

My throat tightens. “I know.”

“Good,” he says, and stands without shame, without urgency, just unfolding like water becoming fire. “Then let me offer something instead.”

He steps toward me, and I don’t back away. Not because I’m brave, but because something in the air has changed—charged not with magic, but something older. Deeper.

“You don’t have to want me yet,” he says, voice low and steady as he closes the distance between us. “You don’t have to touch me. Or kiss me. Or claim me.”

He stops inches from me, not touching, just letting me feel the heat of him.

“But when you do,” he whispers, “you won’t regret it.”

My heart stumbles in my chest.

I swallow hard. “You’re still naked.”

“And you’re still staring.”

Gods. I am. And I can’t seem to stop.

He lifts his hand like it’s nothing—like it’s everything. Fingers open, steady, palm facing the sky. A silent request. A soft command. Or maybe an invitation. I don’t know. I just know it’s deliberate. Everything Orin does is deliberate.

The sun behind him burns gold across his skin, catching in the faint shimmer of water that still clings to him, and somehow,somehow, he’s not even trying to be beautiful—he just is. Ancient and unbothered and devastating in that slow, aching way that makes it impossible to look anywhere else.

“I want my gift now,” he says, his voice calm, sure. “You brought one for me.”

I blink, confused, and my gaze drops to his hand. “I didn’t,” I say softly. “I didn’t bring anything.”

He doesn’t lower his hand.

“You did,” he says again, like he knows me better than I know myself. “You just haven’t given it to me yet.”

Panic curls in my chest. I feel stripped bare, standing here with nothing in my pockets, no trinket or token or clever words to offer. What gift? What the hell could I possibly—But then something inside me clicks into place, and my hands move before my brain catches up.

I take a step closer, barefoot in the grass, and curl my fingers around his. His skin is warm, sun-kissed and waiting, and I press my lips to the center of his palm, slow and reverent, like I’m trying to pour everything I can’t say into that one, fleeting touch.

And I whisper, “You’re beautiful.”

It’s barely a breath. A truth I’ve never spoken aloud.

Orin doesn’t move. For a beat, he just watches me like he’s not sure I’m real. Then his lips curl—wide and unguarded, so brilliant it makes my chest ache. Not the smirk he gives when he’s playing philosopher, or the subtle amusement he carries when teasing me, but something younger. Softer. Honest.

His eyes squint with the force of it, creasing at the corners like a boy who just received exactly what he wanted for his birthday and is trying not to cry about it.

“That,” he murmurs, voice rough now, “was perfect.”

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