Page 227 of The Sin Binder's Destiny

Silas blinks at me. “I havesix cloaks, Elias. One for every mood.”

“You’re not allowed moods.”

“Too late,” he says, slapping the monocle on Caspian, who flinches like it burns. “You’re now Lord Sees-A-Lot. Riven—cloak. Ambrose—scar sticker. Orin gets—”

“No,” Orin says calmly.

Silas hesitates. “Not even the badge?”

Orin takes the badge. Pins it to his chest.

“Okay, that felt weirdly powerful,” Silas mutters.

We move like idiots through the courtyard shadows. Ambrose is actively growling. Caspian keeps tugging the monocle off and getting it slapped back on by Silas. Riven’s hood is falling over his eyes and he refuses to push it up. I think he’s trying to go blind by choice.

We trail Lucien and Luna at a distance. Too far to hear their conversation. Close enough to see Lucien glance down at her like she’s made of stars he’s not supposed to touch. My gut twists.

Because he will.

Because we all do.

And that’s the thing about Sin.

We were never meant to resist her.

Only survive her.

Silas

It’s like watching one of those dramatic mortal plays where everyone dies in the third act, but the director lies to the audience and calls it a love story. That’s Lucien and Luna. Brooding and brilliant and bleeding out slowly across a campus that somehow doesn’t recognize the divine tragedy taking place on its cobblestone paths.

I adjust my mustache—third one today, this one glued slightly off-center so I look vaguely European and entirely unhinged. There’s also a beard now. Full, glorious, and if I may say so myself, rugged as hell. I could scale a mountain in this getup. Deliver cryptic wisdom from a cave. Start a cult.

Elias gives me a look. The kind that saysI regret every decision that’s led to standing next to you right now. But he still hands me a mirror to check the angle. Best friends are funny that way—equal parts accomplice and disappointed parent.

“They’re turning into the south garden,” I whisper, tugging my fake beard into place like it’s armor. “We need cover.”

“You are dressed like a Victorian lumberjack. I don’t think stealth is on the table,” Elias mutters, sipping from a thermos that I’m ninety percent sure just contains despair.

“It’s tea,” he lies when I ask.

“Sure it is.”

We creep along the wall, our whole not-even-close-to-incognito crew stumbling after Lucien and Luna like we’re auditioning for a supernatural reality show. Orin’s trailingbehind us, unbothered and unreadable, the Paranormal Investigator badge still pinned to his chest like some ironic protest. Ambrose mutters curses under his breath every time a twig cracks under his boots. Riven doesn’t say a word. Just stares after them with the kind of dark focus that makes me wonder if he’s imagining Lucien’s corpse or their wedding toast.

“They look happy,” I say, because someone needs to break the silence and it may as well be me.

“They look like a fucking disaster waiting to happen,” Elias says flatly.

“They look like soulmates,” Orin adds, voice quiet, which weirdly makes everyone go silent for a beat.

Then I fake-sneeze to lighten the mood. “Sorry. The beard’s shedding.”

Lucien leans in closer to Luna as they walk, his hand brushing hers—barely a whisper of contact—and I have to physically slap a hand over my mouth to keep from screaming. It’s that intimate. Thatdangerous. Like he’s one inch from claiming her in a way none of us are ready for.

“They’re going to bond,” Caspian mutters, voice low and bitter.

“I give it two days,” I say.

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