Page 112 of Collared by the Vampire Prince

He steps from the shadows beside the broken wolf statue, catches my wrist, and yanks me into the dark alcove, spinning me into the wall hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs.

Stone bites into my back. His hand closes at my throat, not squeezing, merely holding me there with such easy strength that my whole body goes still.

“Why,” he hisses, “are you following me?”

I drag in a breath, feigning indignance. “Following you? Please. I was on my way back to the dormitories.”

“The dormitories are that way.”

“I know. I was taking the long way.”

His mouth lifts. It is not a kind smile. Barely a smile at all, only a slight deepening at one corner, amused and formidable. I stare, transfixed, his icy-blond hair ghostly in the gloom and his fangs just visible behind parted lips.

“You had better hurry along. You know what happens to wolves who wander alone after dark.”

“It is barely after dinner,” I snap. “And besides, I’m off limits. I’m collared, remember?”

His gaze drops to my throat.

“To everyone else, perhaps.” His voice lowers. “But you and I both know that collar belongs to no Master.” His fingers move, smoothing a strand of hair away from the leather. They brush the side of my neck, and a shiver runs through me in what must be revulsion.

His gaze hones in on it, understanding flashing in his eyes. “You intended to kill me.”

My fingers twitch as I think of the knife hidden inside my sleeve.

I would have to be fast. Very fast.

I snort. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” His sharp eyes remain fixed on mine.

“I don’t want to kill you.”

His thumb settles over the frantic beat of my pulse. “Then I can only conclude that you followed me because you wanted…something else.”

“I want nothing from you.”

“No?” His head bends, his mouth hovering near my throat.

I should reach for the knife. I should shove him away. I should do literally anything except stand there with my back against the wall and my breath trapped in my chest.

“I thought you didn’t drink blood,” I stammer.

“Perhaps it is not blood you came to offer.”

Heat rushes through my face. “You are delusional.”

“Am I?”

He leans back, though his hand remains at my throat. His thumb traces, almost idly, along the edge of my collar. My pulse jumps against it.

“What are you doin—”

“Shh.” His gaze drops to my mouth, then lower. “I am reconsidering.”

“Reconsidering what?”

“Whether to take you like this—or fuck you from behind.” His voice is barely more than breath.