Despite the mountain lion scare, Phantom and I spend the next couple of weeks moving through summer as if it were stitched just for us. Each moment with him eclipses the last. He doesn’t feel like a prince of bloodlines—he feels like the kind of prince carved out of dreams. Me—the daughter of rogues—falling for royalty. The irony tastes sharp, almost sweet, like biting into forbidden fruit that somehow belongs to me.
Mornings are sweat and grit with Kelsa. The thud of fists against training pads echoes in the humid Georgia air. My knuckles sting, my muscles ache, sweat slicks down my spine, but the discipline steadies me. Afternoons dissolve into Phantom’s orbit: the hum of traffic, roasted peanuts perfuming sidewalks, neon signs flickering in diner windows. He insists on making my summ
