Page 117 of The Sin Binder's Descent
“She’ll survive,” I say. “Because she’s not like them.”
And because none of us will let her go down.
But I don’t say that part. Too serious. Too much.
Elias leans forward, snatching the joint from Ambrose’s fingers like he’s saving his own life. “You know what’s wild?” He takes a drag, eyes flicking up, snark sharp and stupid. “I always figured if she got to five, it’d be me she regretted.”
I bark out a laugh. “Oh no, darling. You’realwaysthe regret. Ambrose just sealed the deal.”
I tap the neck of the beer bottle against my thigh, watching the smoke curl lazy across the garage ceiling while the others drink and pretend they aren’t two seconds from unraveling.
Then I say it, because of course I do. I can’t help myself. Voice loose, grin sharp enough to slice.
“So,” I ask casually, like we’re talking about the weather and not the fact our Sin Binder is now a breathing spell stitched together by ink and blood and all of us. “How’d they look?”
That gets a reaction.
Riven’s gaze cuts to me, sharp as a knife but unreadable. Caspian barely glances up, his fingers white-knuckling the bottle like the weight of everything’s still sinking into his bones. Elias smirks around the joint, slumped so far in the chair he might actually dissolve.
Ambrose snorts. It’s not a sound anyone who doesn’t know him would catch. Barely audible. But it’s there—a crack in the ice. A sound like he’s still trying to remind himself he’s above this, when he’s already drowning.
I lean back against the workbench, grinning wide and vicious. “C’mon, Ambrose. You were up close and personal. Don’t hold out on me.”
He drags his gaze to mine, sharp and flat and dangerous. “You want me to describe her tits, Veyd?”
Elias chokes on a laugh, half-spitting smoke across the room. “Gods, I hate it here.”
I throw my head back, laughing hard. “I mean, not opposed.”
I lean forward, dropping my elbows on my knees, grin lazy and wicked. “Where’s mine?” I ask, voice dipping softer now, something heavier laced beneath the words. “You saw ’em. Where’s my mark on her?”
Ambrose doesn’t answer right away. Just lifts the bottle to his lips, eyes dragging over me like he’s deciding whether or not I deserve the answer.
“She’s covered,” he says finally, voice smooth and brutal. “Ribs. Hips. Sternum.”
His mouth twists. Not quite a smile.
“And yeah, Veyd. Yours is there.”
I feel it, low and electric, something dark curling under my ribs.
Elias hums lazily, head tipping back against the chair. “Yours is practically scribbled across her like a bad decision.”
“Like a love letter written in Sharpie,” I shoot back, grinning.
He snorts. “Like a drunk tattoo on spring break.”
Riven rolls his eyes and mutters something under his breath in Old Tongue that probably translates toyou’re all idiots.
Ambrose doesn’t look at any of us. His eyes are fixed on the beer bottle, on the edge of something sharp.
“She’s carrying all of us now,” he says quietly, almost to himself.
I glance at him sideways, letting my smile soften—not enough for anyone but him to notice.
“She can handle it,” I murmur. “She’s ours.”
Outside, the Hollow stirs again, magic crawling restless across the wards, a reminder that nothing in this house is normal. That nothing we are is safe.
