Page 36 of Collared by the Vampire Prince

They never tire…

Nausea shudders through me, my throat constricting as I sit on the cold, slick stone, clutching my ripped tunic while the Vampire Prince stands over me.

How did I get here? Yesterday, I was in the mountains, curled up in my bed in the Resistance’s safehouse. Warm blankets. The smell of dinner drifting through the walls, even if I’d stubbornly refused to eat it. Byron, Mary, Ana, and the others only a room away, their voices carrying faintly through the timber walls. Now I’m collared, and half-exposed in an alley, still trembling with the memory of those dead hands still crawling over my skin.

Light blooms around us as lamps are lit inside the nearby houses. A curtain twitches. Someone is watching.

Nathaniel draws up his hood—and the movement pulls my attention back to him just as a City Watchman rounds the corner. A born vampire in grey uniform, his alert gaze flicking between us.

“What happened here?”

Nathaniel answers smoothly. “I have been disciplining my pet.” When the watchman raises an eyebrow, he sighs dramatically. “We were practising off-leash walking. She decided to run. And so, here we are.”

The lie is so outrageous I almost choke.

The watchman’s gaze shifts to my torn clothing, and Nathaniel steps subtly between us.

“My apologies for the disturbance, Sergeant. If you’ll allow me to finish correcting the behaviour, I assure you she will be as quiet as a mouse.”

The vampire’s ears colour faintly. “Only a constable, sir.”

“Ah. Constable.” The modest way Nathaniel inclines his head leaves me in no doubt that he knew the man’s rank from his uniform.

The flattery works. After a long pause, the watchman draws himself up, shoulders a little squarer than before. “Well, then. I see you have the matter well in hand. Keep it quiet.”

“Of course, Constable,” Nathaniel murmurs.

Even once the guard has left, Nathaniel doesn’t move. He remains a dark statue in the alley, tall and lean, the edges of his coat and broad shoulders picked out by the distant candlelight.

One by one, the curious lights vanish. Doors close. Windows darken.

Soon, we are alone in the dark once more.

Nathaniel crouches before me and lifts my chin with one finger. I should pull away, but I don’t. I can’t look away from those piercing eyes as they search my face.

“Do you require a demonstration,” he asks quietly, “of the sort of correction that the watchman expected me to deliver?”

The meaning lands at once. I give a small shake of my head.

His grip tightens. “Then do not run again.” The words are soft—far softer than they should be. “Promise me.”

Every instinct resists, but my throat is tight, my hands are shaking, and all I can think of is how close I came to being helpless beneath that thing.

“Kira.”

I manage a nod.

“Good.” His hand doesn’t fall away. Instead, he frowns and tilts my chin to one side. “You’re bleeding.”

“I-I am?” I hate the stutter. How unsteady I feel with him hovering so close.

“It scratched you. Here.” His fingers drift along my jawline, moving lower to brush the side of my throat before coming to rest near my collarbone.

I have to tuck my chin in to try to see the marks.

Three thin red scratches stand out against my skin. A small amount of blood wells along one of them. For a moment, Nathaniel simply stares. Then his thumb brushes lightly across the wound. The touch sends an inexplicable shiver through me. Before I realise what he is doing, he lifts his blood-coated thumb to his mouth.

My breath catches.