Page 37 of The Panther's Price

Lucien stared at her.

Somethingshatteredbehind his ribs.

And before he could stop himself, he crossed the space between them in two strides.

His hand found her waist. Hers curled into his collar.

Their mouths crashed together, heat and fury and something broken needing to bleed.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was war.

Lucien forced himself to back away. “Get some sleep,” he said roughly. “We have a lot to cover tomorrow.”

Lucien couldn’t even look at her. He didn’t trust himself to. All he knew was that he had to train her to be ready. For war, his mother, Thalia… possibly even himself.

SIXTEEN

EVRYN

Evryn hadn’t slept.

Her body had curled up by the cold hearth, her eyes shut tight, but rest never came. Not really. Not afterthat.

The kiss still lingered on her lips like smoke—hot, stolen, reckless. She hadn’t expected it. Hadn’tplannedit. But she hadn’t pulled away either.

And Lucien… he’d touched her like he hated that he needed it. Like wanting her was a war he was already losing.

And then he’d stepped back. Like he regretted it. Likeshewas a mistake.

Evryn didn’t know what made her more raw, the kiss itself or the silence after.

She sat up slowly in the pale morning light, pulling her coat tighter around herself. The fire had burned to ash and frost had kissed the edges of the stone floor. The summit circle was quiet, the wind softer than the night before.

Lucien stood across the clearing, arms crossed, his back to her. Watching the horizon. Always watching. Always calculating.

Evryn ran a hand through her tangled curls and pushed herself to her feet, the ache in her chest more stubborn than the bruises along her ribs from the last fight.

She walked over. She didn’t speak.

Neither did he for a beat.

Lucien broke the silence with, “I can show you.”

Evryn blinked. “Show me what?”

He turned, just enough for her to see the glint in his silver eyes.

“Your shadows.”

Lucien led her to the edge of the summit where the stone formed a smooth basin, half-swallowed by moss and old war carvings. It smelled faintly of iron and wet smoke.

“Shadowmancy isn’t something youforce,” he said, his voice quieter now. More teacher than killer. “It’s not muscle. It’s instinct. Breath. Fear.”

Evryn arched a brow. “Great. Fear’s my specialty.”

Lucien’s mouth quirked—not quite a smile, but the edge of one. “It listens to the parts of you you try to bury.”

She stepped into the basin. “And what if I don’t know what those are?”

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