Page 87 of Collared by the Vampire Prince

“I’ll take those,” I say, deciding an attempt to act normally is always a good start.

To my surprise, he hands me the bouquet.

I take them carefully, keeping my fingers well clear of his. “I’ll just put these in the bin with the others, shall I?”

A joke. I made a fucking joke. A shadow of my old self—or a sign I’m going mad.

“The bin?” he asks. “Is that the sort of treatment my gifts have been receiving?”

I silently curse as I round the table to the conspicuously empty vase in its centre, one we were specifically instructed not to fill.

“Yes, unfortunately.” I’m careful not to turn my back on Nathaniel, who is still hovering in the doorway.

“Unfortunately?”

The amusement threading his voice grows more distinct, and my cheeks heat as I undo the wrapping and arrange the roses in the vase. I keep my focus on them, too wary to face him directly.

“I’m sure you noticed she left them there at breakfast.”

“I did.”

“And yesterday,” I add.

“Many breakfasts, in fact. I’m surprised you noticed.”

“I’m observant.”

“I see.” A pause. “So, tell me. Why unfortunately? Why do you care if she values them or not?”

“I don’t,” I mutter, taking my time rolling the coarse ribbon that had bound the stems between my fingers. I can’t think of a barb or insult to offer him. I am not sure if I would dare, now.

So when I eventually answer, I give him the truth, because after all, there is no point pretending he didn’t scare me last night. My voice is low as I say, “Whatever might be going on in the world, whatever war or crimes stand between vampires and wolves, these roses are still beautiful.”

He tilts his head. “How…poetic.”

I glance up despite myself and find him leaning one shoulder against the doorway, expression unreadable. But not angry like last night.

My gaze drops quickly back to the roses, my heart thrumming.

“What I find unfortunate,” he says, “is that their beauty does not last. They are so quick to die. Particularly when they are not cared for.”

I had braced for an insult. When none comes, I straighten, considering his words.

Are we honestly discussing horticulture?

I make a small sound of agreement, my gaze still on the roses. “They may not live long, but that does not mean they did not matter.”

“If you mean that it is the ‘thought that counts’, I think you and I both know these flowers mean very little—particularly to the recipient.”

Does that mean they mean something to him? I don’t ask.

I turn that thought over. “I think these flowers are perfect regardless of what you, or Victoria, or anyone else thinks of them. They were perfect when you bought them, and perfect when the florist picked them from the field. If and when they wither, they still existed.”

“Hothouse.”

I cannot help it. I glance up again. This time, my gaze sticks, lost in his icy blues. “Excuse me?”

“I do believe they came from a hothouse.” His mouth barely moves, but there is something dangerously close to humour in his eyes. “Though it is summer, so who knows? Perhaps there was an obliging field near the Capital.”