Page 8 of The Sin Binders Ascent

LUCIEN:Come to Blackwell’s office. Now.

No punctuation. That’s punctuation enough.

“Do we know what it’s about?” I ask, looking up.

Orin tilts his head, the towel now resting in one palm like it’s become a prop in a sermon. “If we knew, Lucien would’ve told us less.”

I arch a brow. “That bad?”

“That Lucien.”

Behind us, Elias makes a noise like he’s choking on air. “Oh good, we’re back in ‘Mysterious Capital-L Leadership’ mode. I missed this part. Did the cryptic texts come with a matching cape, or is that extra?”

Orin doesn’t blink. “Would you prefer a memo?”

“Yes. Bullet points. Pie charts. Maybe a slideshow if he’s feeling spicy.”

I pocket the phone, the tile beneath my boots shifts from the warmth of the kitchen to the colder, older stone that lines the east wing, constructed from the ruins of whatever Lucien buried beneath this house when he declared us done running.

“I’ll handle it,” I say, mostly to Orin.

But he doesn’t nod. Doesn’t move. Just watches. And that,that, tells me everything I need. Whatever this is, it’s not just another meeting. It’s a summons. And Lucien doesn’t summon me unless he already knows I’ll hate what’s waiting on the other side.

I pause at the edge of the hallway, hand brushing the stone wall as the scent of rosemary deepens, twisting now with butter and something too rich, too sweet.

It hits me like a red flag.

“Wait.” I pivot slowly, eyes narrowing toward the kitchen. “Who’s cooking?”

Orin doesn’t hesitate. “Caspian.”

My entire body stills. “Wholet Caspian cook?”

Orin’s mouth curves, just a little. Not quite amusement. Not quite concerned. A man used to watching storms build. “He said he had avision.”

“Of food?”

“Of seduction.”

“Gods,” I groan, already imagining the disaster. “Did he mention what he’s attempting to seduce? Human taste buds? A fire marshal?”

Orin folds the towel neatly, sets it on the counter. “He was shirtless. Flour-dusted. Whispering to a lamb shank.”

Elias snorts. “Yeah, that’s usually how it starts. Then someone ends up licking cinnamon off a ceiling fan and pretending it’s performance art.”

I turn back toward the kitchen and call out, “Caspian!”

From somewhere in the food pantry, his voice floats, full of golden arrogance. “I’m making something unforgettable, darling!It’s got wine, figs, and just a whisper of immortality!”

“Did the lamb consent to this?”

“Consent is implied through marination!”

I glance back at Orin. “You’re letting this happen?”

He lifts one shoulder in a shrug that somehow makes every line of his body look more carved. “We all have our rituals. Caspian’s just involve less prayer and more… oil.”

“I swear,” I mutter, already stepping back toward the hall, “if that kitchen smells like burnt foreplay when I get back,”

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