Page 127 of The Sin Binders Ascent

Not when I still dream of Riven’s hands on my hips. Not when I still feel Orin’s kiss like scripture pressed to my spine. Not when I remember the way Elias laughs when I threaten to kill him and then kisses my ankle just to make me mad. Not when Imissthem with every fractured hour I’m trapped here.

But gods help me, I want to know what Theo tastes like when he stops holding back.

I look away. Not because I’m ashamed, but because I’m scared of what happens if I let myselffall. Because this doesn’t feel like wandering into something new. It feels likegiving in. And if I do, if I bond with him the way I did the others, then this whole world shifts.

And it might never shift back.

He hasn’t tried to kiss me again. Not since that night beneath the broken cliff, when everything between us almost cracked open for real. He looked at my mouth, and I felt it in every part of me, the pull, the charge. And then he pulled away. No dramatics. No smug remark. Just… space.

And since then, the flirting’s dried up too. No more lazy innuendos, no suggestive stares while I’m trying to wash blood off my arms in the river or peel the skin from some hell-fruit that smells like citrus and rot. No more offhand comments about what he could do to me if I asked nicely.

Instead, I get this version of him. Quiet, aware. Still Theo, but… softer.

It’s unsettling how much I like him like this.

When he’s not trying so hard, he’s actually charming. The real kind. The kind that doesn’t need polish or bravado, just presence. He listens. He remembers things I say even when I don’t mean them to matter. Yesterday, I muttered that I missed tea, actual tea, not the boiled bark sludge we’ve been drinking, and today, he handed me a steaming cup that smelled faintly of mint and something darker.

He wouldn’t tell me how he found it. That’s what I mean. He’s not performing anymore. He justis. And gods help me, it’s working. Because now I can’t stop watching him when he thinks I’m not looking. The way his hands move when he builds a fire, methodical and careful, like he's done it a thousand timesand still takes the task seriously. The way he leans back against trees, not to pose but torest, head tilted, eyes half-lidded, listening to whatever this world hums through its soil. The way he talks now, not to impress but to connect, low stories told in half-murmurs that carry just enough warmth to make me forget this place is eating us alive.

And he hasn't tried anything.

Not one move. Not a glance that lingers too long, not a shift in his body toward mine when we sleep near the embers, not even a hint of that teasing edge in his voice when we’re alone in the dark.

I thought I’d be relieved. Grateful. But the truth is, I don’t know what he’s waiting for.

And worse than that?

I’m starting to wonder if Iwanthim to make the first move.

It’s maddening. I keep circling back to it, like my brain’s chewing the thought down to the marrow. Would I kiss him if he leaned in? Would I push him away? Would I taste regret in it, or something like fate finally snapping into place?

I don’t know. And that not-knowing clings to me harder than guilt ever could.

We walk again, following the edge of a ridge that overlooks a dried-out riverbed crawling with silver insects that scatter in fractal patterns. The sky above us bleeds color in thick smears, gray, green, violet, as if it can’t make up its mind what time it’s supposed to be.

Theo walks ahead, his stride easy, a blade strapped across his back, another looped at his hip. He hasn’t looked back at me in an hour.

Maybe he’s giving me space. Maybe he’s tired of waiting.

And shit, maybe Iamwaiting for him to make the move, because if he does, I can blame it on him. Let it happen, fall into it, let myselfwanthim fully, and pretend I was dragged into itinstead of throwing myself willingly into his gravity. Because if I’m honest, honest with myself in a way I haven’t dared to be out loud, I’m already halfway his.

There’s a tangle of bonewood roots coiled in the path ahead, thick as my thigh and warped like something that grew out of spite. They’ve knotted over what used to be a bridge, or maybe a staircase, but whatever structure once existed here has been swallowed by moss and time and whatever else this world does to devour memory. It drops off in a jagged fall, maybe fifteen feet down into a ravine filled with black reeds and glass thorns that look like they’d carve a soul out of a body just for breathing too close.

I eye it. “We’re not climbing that.”

Theo glances over his shoulder, his mouth tugging into something that isn't quite a smile, but close enough to make heat curl low in my spine.

“You are,” he says, voice smooth and maddening. “Because I’m going to help you.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“You don’t,” he agrees, stepping closer, “but I want to give it.”

He doesn’t wait for my argument. Just plants himself solid in front of the first root, broad shoulders and infuriating confidence radiating off him like he was born to carry worlds and make it look easy. He turns slightly, one hand reaching back toward me.

I hesitate. Not because I can’t take his hand, but because Iwantto. And that’s the problem.

His fingers flex, waiting.

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