Page 58 of The Panther's Price

“I never thought I’d want something after this,” she said softly.

Lucien lay beside her, close enough to feel the heat of her shoulder. “Want what?”

“A future. A life. I always thought surviving would be enough.”

Lucien stared up with her. “And now?”

She didn’t answer right away.

“Now it feels like surviving isn’t enough if it’s just me at the end of it.”

Lucien turned to look at her. She met his gaze, slow and certain.

“I tried to fight it. Lie to myself, but… You make me want something more,” she whispered.

Lucien’s chest tightened.

He reached out, brushing her fingers, slow and unsure. She curled them around his.

They moved at the same time, drawn like magnets, like tides. Their mouths met—not rushed, not furious like the last time—but steady, needing.

Lucien kissed with a need that he couldn’t hide.

Evryn kissed him like she was afraid they’d never have another night.

The stars burned cold overhead, but her skin was fever-warm under his palms. Lucien’s shadows coiled around them like living silk, insulating their makeshift bed of cloaks and pine needles. His thumb caught on the raised scar bisecting her ribcage—a relic from her first altercation at sixteen, she’d told him a week ago, voice casual as if recounting a tavern brawl. Now, her breath stuttered.

“Still think I’m going to vanish?” Her teeth grazed his collarbone, hands sliding under his tunic. “Or are you waiting for me to sprout fangs?”

He huffed a laugh against her throat. “You already bite.”

“Only when provoked.” She nipped his earlobe to prove it, then stilled when his fingers found the knot of her leathers. A beat too long. Her pulse thrummed against his lips.

He pulled back just enough to catch her gaze. “Evryn.”

“Don’t.” Her palm pressed over his heart, steadying them both. “I’m not glass, Lucien. You won’t break me.”

“That’s not what I’m afraid of.”

Her laugh frayed at the edges. “Right. Because the assassin prince isterrifiedof a half-starved orphan.”

He trapped her wrist, guiding her hand lower, past the scar beneath his ribs where his mother’s blade had once slipped, past the ink sigils binding him to a throne he loathed—until her fingers splayed over the hammering truth beneath his navel. “Terrified,” he repeated, raw.

She went very still at his hardness. Then her free hand yanked him closer by the hair. “Good.”

Their foreheads collided. Clumsy. Human. Her next kiss tasted like recklessness, her hips arching into his. The laces of her trousers gave way under his shaking fingers.

“Wait.” She shoved at his shoulder, sudden enough that his shadows lashed out, gouging the earth.

He froze. “What is it?”

Her grin flashed wicked in the dark. “Boots. Unless you want to explain why your shadow-walking ass got kicked by a buckle.”

He blinked. Then barked a laugh, sharp and startled. “You’reinsufferable.”

“And you’re still wearing yours.” She hooked a heel around his calf, toppling him onto his back. Pine needles clung to his hair as she straddled him, yanking at his bootlaces with theatrical fury. “Gods, do you armor your feet for battle or just to vex me?”

“Both.” He tangled a hand in her curls, tugging her mouth back to his. “Hurry up.”

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