Page 58 of The Sin Binder's Destiny

His eyes burn when he says it, like he’s already picturing every single one.

Orin

The pages blur beneath my gaze. The words, old and brittle, stretched across yellowed parchment in ink that's nearly bled itself invisible. I’ve read every book in this forsaken place—the Hollow’s archives scattered like bones through its libraries, tucked beneath crumbling towers and rotted shelves. Every spell, every theory, every fevered prayer of the Sin Binders before us who tried to escape this realm and failed.

And still, it all leads back to the same dead end—the portal Luna obliterated to save us. Riven's tried to rebuild it, pieced together blueprints and symbols and old magics, but it’s hollow now. No spark left. No way out.

I sigh and close the book, dragging a hand over my jaw. This place may be holding together for now, our little corner carved out of madness—Riven’s walls, Ambrose’s order, my endless reading, the others trying to pretend they can build something normal here—but it won't last. The Hollow doesn't allow peace. It’s just circling us, patient, hungry.

And the Sin Binders? We’ve only met two. Two tame ones, relatively speaking. But word will spread. They’ll come sniffing, because that’s what predators do when they catch wind of prey.

My thumb runs absently over the cracked spine of the book in my lap as I hear them outside—the laughter, the splash, the bickering chaos that’s become home.

Riven's new pond glimmers under the sun like a mirror poured out over the wild grass, ringed by the jagged spires of a worldthat’s always watching us. The house behind me hums quiet and content for now.

And there she is.

Luna, in that ridiculous, dangerous hot pink bathing suit Silas convinced her to wear. She glows. Not just in her skin, or the curve of her body—but in the way she commands the entire Hollow without realizing it. They orbit her like stars around a singularity.

I watch as she shrieks, flinging water at Ambrose who—Gods help us—actually laughs and lunges for her, pulling her under with a smirk.

There’s something so bright and human about it, so careless. And I want to burn it into my memory because we don’t get moments like this.

Not here. Not for long. I stand, smoothing a hand down my shirt. And then I peel it off. Deliberate. Quiet.

I don’t join their chaos—not yet—but I step outside, the grass cool against my feet, the scent of wild ivy and magic clinging to the air.

Luna’s gaze finds me when I cross the threshold, her laughter still lingering in her throat as she tries to duck away from Ambrose’s grip. But it stutters, her smile catching when she sees me.

Good.

I walk toward the edge of the pond, slow, deliberate. When I pass her, close enough that the droplets from her skin brush my arm, I lean in—not for anyone else, not for the boys throwing water like children—but only for her.

My lips skim the shell of her ear, and I murmur, voice low enough that it belongs to only her:

“You look too good in that little suit, Luna. I’m trying to be civil, but you’re making it very, very difficult.”

Her breath stumbles.

I don’t wait for an answer. I walk straight past, slipping into the cool water with a deliberate ease, the ripple of it carrying back to her.

The thing about courting Luna? I’ll never do it like the others. I don't need to chase her. I’ll make her come to me.

The water slides over my skin like silk spun from shadows, cold enough to bite beneath the surface but never enough to steal the heat simmering low in my chest.

I keep my distance. Not because I want to. Gods, no. Every fiber in me strains toward her—Luna, half-wild and laughing, bathing suit clinging to her like a threat. But this is the dance, and I’ll play it better than any of them. She doesn’t know yet that she’ll come to me. I’ll make her want it. Make herneedit.

But not now.

Now, I swim across the pond, each measured stroke slicing clean through the water until I reach the opposite side. Lucien sits there, back against the jagged ruin of an old boundary stone, knees bent, sleeves rolled up, like he hasn’t ruled empires and razed kingdoms. He watches the others—the easy chaos of Silas dunking Elias, Riven barking half-hearted warnings, Luna glowing in the center of it like the world was remade just to orbit her.

I drag myself out of the water without ceremony, the shadows clinging to my shoulders as I shake the droplets from my hair. He doesn’t look up, but I know he’s aware of me.

“Lucien,” I greet quietly, settling beside him, close enough that the silence between us stretches tight.

He grunts in acknowledgment, eyes still fixed forward like he’s trying to solve an equation he can’t quite crack.

For a while, neither of us says anything. I let the weight of the moment settle, the way I always do with Lucien. He’s not like the others. You can’t meet him with noise or fury—you have to approach him like a blade sliding into a sheath. Slow. Precise.

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