Page 3 of Collared by the Vampire Prince

I understand why he worries. He raised me—along with his mate, Mary. They had also taken in Ana, Dren, and several other wolf children who were orphaned that night.

Ana is tall and fine-boned, with long red hair and an oddly regal bearing. She has always seemed out of place among the Resistance. As though she belongs somewhere else. I look as though I belong nowhere at all.

Dren looks like Dren, rigid-backed and square-shouldered, holding himself with such officious determination that it only makes him look as though he has something to prove.

At least they both look like wolves are supposed to when they shift.

There is something wrong with me. There always has been, ever since they found me as a child, my parents murdered in their own house after vampires swept through our village searching for dissenters. It is a mercy I was only three; too young to remember. A mercy, too, that Byron and Mary found me.

I was on the thatched roof in the darkness, shifted and curled up asleep in a wicker basket beneath a warm blanket, blissfully unaware of the smoke and fire spreading across the rooftops around me.

They believe my parents hid me there in one final act of love. One last desperate attempt to keep me alive and free. Because it is unlikely I would have been left alone to be raised by the village. Not when I more closely resembled one of King Henrikk’s dark creations—the creatures even he named abominations—than a wolf.

That was sixteen years ago. I have since carried messages for the Resistance, watched roads after dark, and learned how to slip past the City Watch without drawing notice—it helps that vampires have a piss-poor sense of smell.

I used to have a purpose.

But not anymore. Nineteen years of age, yet somehow less trusted than I was before.

My last mission with the Resistance failed abysmally—and one death changed everything. The Resistance never truly recovered. Since then, Byron and Mary have done everything they can to keep me out of danger.

I try not to wonder whether they blame me for what happened. Or whether I should blame myself.

Just enjoy the mountain air, Kira, Mary told me when I complained. You’re safe. You’re free. Isn’t that enough?

It would be, if I could forget how many other wolves have lost their freedom.

The Kingdom of Volmasque is ruled by vampires, a powerful network of noble houses living almost exclusively in the Capital who keep wolf shifters as playthings to be fed on, owned, and used.

Humans, by contrast, live quietly in villages beyond the city, ignored like livestock left to graze. They are rarely fed upon.

Vampires prefer wolf blood. They say it’s more nourishing. More satisfying. More arousing.

The sick bastards.

That’s why they keep us close in the Capital.

I am one of the fortunate ones. Never registered, never fed upon, never forced into a vampire’s bed. And I intend to keep it that way.

Though I’d rather still be living in a village, a year ago, after our last Resistance mission went disastrously wrong, Byron and Mary took me from Nordokk and hid me away in a mountain safehouse so remote it may as well be a prison. Living as an unregistered wolf amongst humans was lonely enough, with forged papers and careful habits keeping me hidden—but now, cut off from civilisation and inexplicably shut out by the Resistance, I’m starved for information.

I understand why they worry. I just don’t understand how long they expect me to live like this.

They trained me to fight. To read and write. How to take care of myself.

Now they keep me tucked away.

Dren and Ana see it too. Only Ana has dared to argue for my place. Sweet, soft-spoken Ana, who never likes to speak out of turn.

Dren has always liked being in control, and suddenly outranking me suited him far too well for him to question it. He is vain in other ways too, always hating how slight he looks beside broader males, though he is tall for a wolf, and I used to like his lean wiriness.

These days, I can’t remember what I ever saw in the pompous prick. Or why I let him be my first kiss.

Whatever the reason is for his sudden protectiveness, Byron won’t tell me. And though he has not forbidden me from trying the clearing again, it is plain he would rather I didn’t.

Mary might have given me a proper chance, but she isn’t here. Her arthritis would never survive a trek this far through the forest. The thought tightens something in my chest. She will worry when she realises I am gone.

At the edge of the clearing, Dren swears under his breath as he tries again—only to falter, his foot drifting sideways. His irritated expression would almost be comical if finding the witch did not matter so much.