Page 59 of The Panther's Price

She bit his lower lip. “Make me.”

The boot hit a tree trunk with a hollow thud. Her laugh dissolved into a gasp as his shadows swarmed up her bare thighs, liquid and hungry. Later, he’d map every scar. Later, she’d trace the tattoos he’d earned in service to a crown that wanted them both dead.

Her voice splintered as he slid into her, their shared breath frosting the air between desperate kisses.

“Lucien.”

His name cracked like a prayer as her hips rolled, taking him deeper. Every ridge and scar of him pressed against her inner walls—a map of violence she traced with her body. He’d memorized the hitch in her breath when he angled upward, the way her thighs tensed when he hit the spot that made her curse the gods.

“Look at me.” His command frayed at the edges, silver eyes burning through the dark. Her violet gaze locked onto his, unblinking even as tears blurred her vision. Not pain—recognition. The same raw terror that had clawed his throat when he’d found her bleeding in the fen, when he’d believed the silence of her pulse.

Her fingernails carved into his shoulders. “Harder.” A challenge, not a plea.

He obliged, hands gripping her hips as she rode him, shadows coiling around her thighs to pull her down each time she rose. Her laugh broke into a gasp. “Cheating bastard.”

“Adapting.” He thrust upward, swallowing her moan with his mouth. She tasted like stolen wine and recklessness, her skin salt and wildfire under his tongue. Her legs cinched around him, heels digging into the small of his back as if she could fuse their skeletons.

Enveloped in the heat of their passion, Evryn moved with a sinuous grace that belied the raw power coiling within her. Each undulation of her hips drew Lucien deeper into the abyss of desire, the friction between them stoking a fire that threatened to consume them both. He could feel the rigid length of his arousal, a testament to the exquisite torment she evoked with every roll of her body. The knowledge that he was the architect of her undoing, the one pushing her to the precipice of ecstasy, only served to harden him further.

Her wetness, a slick sheath that enveloped him with each thrust, was a potent elixir, headier than the most potent spirits of the realm. It was a tangible manifestation of her desire, a silken proof of her body's eager response to his touch. Lucien's hands, ever restless, roamed the contours of her form, torn between the allure of her full, pert breasts and the temptation of her round, firm ass. Each option presented its own temptation; her breasts, a perfect handful, beckoned his palms with thepromise of her pebbled nipples grazing his skin. Her ass, with its inviting curve, seemed to demand the firm grip of his fingers, guiding her rhythm and drawing her closer with each surge of his hips.

In the end, his hands settled on the swell of her hips, fingers digging into her soft skin as he matched her fervor, thrust for thrust. The shadows at his command danced along their entwined bodies, a dark ballet that accentuated the contrast between his pale skin and her honey-toned flesh. The night air, cool and crisp, was a stark contrast to the furnace of their passion, yet it did nothing to douse the flames that raged between them.

Evryn's breath came in short, sharp gasps, each one a silent plea for more. Her violet eyes, darkened with desire, locked onto his, and in their depths, he saw the reflection of his own need. She was close, so deliciously close, to the edge he had so meticulously coaxed her toward. And as her body began to tremble with the onset of her release, Lucien knew that he would follow her into the abyss, willingly lost in the maelstrom of their shared desire.

When her release hit, it wasn’t quiet. She threw her head back, a scream tearing loose as her body clenched around him. He followed, spilling into her with a growl that shook the pine needles beneath them. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to her trembling heat, the pulse fluttering in her throat, the way her fingers tangled in his hair like an anchor.

She collapsed against his chest, breath ragged.

The fire had dwindled to embers, the night air sharp enough to sting. Yet her warmth seeped into him, a live wire humming against his skin. He shifted, tucking his cloak around her bare shoulders.

Her laughter vibrated against his chest. “Since when do assassins play nursemaid?”

“Since you’re terrible at staying clothed in freezing fens.”

Her breath evened, limbs heavy against him. The stars blurred above, indifferent witnesses. He counted her heartbeats, each thud a rebellion against the silence he’d once called peace.

Evryn traced a scar on his ribs. “When did you get this one?”

“Witchblade. Grimhart skirmish.”

“This one?”

“Training. I was fifteen. Cassian broke the rules.”

She was quiet a long moment.

Then, “He’s not going to stop, is he?”

Lucien shook his head. “No. He wants to prove I failed. That I went soft.”

Her voice was a whisper. “Did you?”

Lucien turned to face her, hand cupping her cheek saying what he’d been denying since he let himself know her. “If loving you is soft… then yeah. I did.”

She leaned into the touch, her fingers curling into the fabric at his chest.

“But if loving you means youlive,” he said, “I’d do it again.”

---