Page 75 of The Sin Binders Ascent

But nothing about desire is simple.

And now? Now I’m here, cuffed to the very woman they swore I’d never reach, walking with her into a forest that’s still awake in ways the world forgot.

Let them watch.

Let them seethe.

Let them remember what it feels like tolose.

Because I will burn this entire place down if it means watching her choose me. Not out of duty. Not because of a cuff. But because she wants to. Because I make herneedto. And need, raw and crawling and insatiable, is a goddamn wildfire. One I know how to fan.

The woods aren’t silent, they never are. Not the way people imagine. Real silence is dead, stale. This? This is the opposite. Living, breathing. Watching. Every branch above us curves like a crooked finger, every trunk is older than the house Luna keeps pretending is a home. Gnarled roots claw out of the soil like they’re trying to escape the rot below. There’s a hum here beneath the moss, subtle and pulsing, like the whole damn forest is exhaling around us.

The fog rolls low, thick as milk and twice as smothering. It clings to our boots, dampens the crunch of fallen leaves beneath us, swallows the fading sunlight whole. I can’t see ten feet ahead, and still she doesn’t slow.

She shouldn’t be alone out here. Shouldn’t be out herewith me. But she didn’t call them. Didn’t whisper for Riven through the bond, didn’t ask Orin to guide her steps, didn’t let Lucien’s command pierce the back of her skull and pull her home. And maybe that’s what rattles me most.

Her breath fogs in the air between us, rising like a ghost that never quite leaves. The scent of pine needles crushed underfoot mixes with something sickly sweet, sap maybe, or the decay of something we haven’t found yet. The deeper we go, the colder it gets, and the thicker the fog becomes. The light is all wrong now. Soft, eerie, the kind that makes you feel like you're walking straight into a dream, or a memory you forgot you had.

Her hair’s pulled back, but strands have come loose, curling in the damp air. Her shoulders are tight. She keeps her weight forward like she’s ready to strike, but I can feel it, the adrenaline under her skin, the wariness blooming at the edge of her awareness. She might not want my help, but sheknowsthis place doesn’t feel right.

Hell,Idon’t feel right. Desire curls under my ribs like a serpent, coiling tighter every time she glances sideways at the trees like they might come alive. And honestly, they might. I’ve fought worse. I’vebeenworse.

Branches above us creak, groan. Not with wind. Thereisno wind. That’s what makes this worse. The air is still. Thick. Heavy. And somethingmoved. Not in the distance either. Close. Too close.

She stiffens.

I lift my scythe before she even speaks. The obsidian edge shimmers faintly, catching the low light in unnatural ways. It doesn’t glow. Itdrinks. I made this thing out of every craving that’s ever twisted my soul sideways. Every ache I never fed. And right now, it wants.

Luna’s fingers curl tighter around the hilt of her own weapon. She’s tracking the sound, shoulders shifting with each calculated step. The fog parts around her like itfearsher.

Smart fog.

I take a slow breath. Earth. Damp. Bitter moss. The faint trace of her shampoo, jasmine and something darker. Something like midnight left out too long.

“Whatever it is,” I murmur low behind her, “I call dibs on killing it.”

She glances over her shoulder once, arching an eyebrow. Not amused. Not impressed. Just… steady. Sharp. And that look? That tiny flick of defiance?

It does something vicious to me. Because for all her fire, for all her fury, she came out here withme. Not the seven gods chained to her heart. Not the ones who’ve had her for decades. Just the one she claims she hates. The one she doesn’t trust.

I grin, baring teeth.

“Lead on, darling,” I whisper as we step deeper into the woods, deeper into something that feels less like a hunt and more like atrap.

Let it try. I’ve been caged too long. And if this place wants a monster, well. It’s about damn time I let him out.

The sound doesn’t stop. Itshifts. One moment, the forest is creaking and groaning under its weight, roots cracking like old bones beneath the soil, and the next…

It’s music.

Not soft. Not serene. It’swrong. A harp, yes, but not the kind you hear in some pretty cathedral or a fucking fairy tale. The notes ring out too sharp, too slow, as if the strings are being plucked by something that doesn’tquiteunderstand what music is supposed to feel like.

I glance at Luna. Her jaw tightens. She hears it too, that dissonance wrapped in beauty. The kind of thing that worms into your skull and tries to sounddivine, but ends up scraping down your spine like teeth on porcelain.

We step through a low curtain of fog that peels back like skin, and there it is.

The clearing is unnatural. Not in the burned-out, barren way most danger announces itself. No. This clearing is lush, overgrown with a kind of silver moss that shimmers with moisture like it’s been crying. The trees surrounding it are perfectly spaced, their trunks a slick white that reflects too much light and casts no shadow. No wind, no birds, no insects. Just the sharp, eerie lull of the harp.

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