Page 116 of Collared by the Vampire Prince

Whether she will.

Well. Let her.

The haze fades as I stride across the yard, cold air filling my lungs and cooling my cheeks, my thoughts clearer by the second. Well, at least I confirmed one thing: Lust. That’s all it was. And now I have purged that maddening little wolf from my veins.

For now.

Chapter 19

Kira

Amonth. I have been at the Academy for an entire month. How can that be? The past two weeks have blurred into lessons, homework, and just enough good behaviour to avoid drawing attention. I even make a genuine effort in Etiquette to spare myself Madame Perfinette’s ire.

Of all my subjects, I put the most effort into Professor Marmala’s. Despite myself, I respect her severity. She is the only professor who treats wolves and vampires alike—mostly by being equally merciless to everyone.

There have been no formal examinations yet, but there are regular tests and assessments. To my surprise, my best subject turns out to be History.

For our latest essay, Professor Saunders asked us to explain how King Henrikk’s reign brought stability to Volmasque. I nearly submitted a single line telling her to go to hell—and the rest of the vampires to suck dicks. Instead, I submitted six pages of such extravagant, saccharine praise that anyone with half a kernel of sense should have recognised it as satire.

Professor Saunders adored it. She awarded me the highest mark in the class, then made me stand and read the entire thing aloud.

The shifters listened restlessly; the vampire students with solemn approval. Saunders dabbed at her eyes twice. I think I would actually have preferred fetching golf balls. Or attending Etiquette class—which has become my least favourite subject after Pet Obedience. Still, at least I can curtsy properly now. Whoop-de-fucking-doo.

I can identify twelve teas by scent and know that a pet must address her Master as Master or Sir, unless granted permission otherwise.

Useless. All of it.

One notable event on my agenda is the upcoming school golf tournament. Professor Bomcroft has been urging me to invite my Master so that my collar might be removed for the occasion.

I neglected to mention I had no Master. Perhaps Nathaniel could be persuaded to remove my collar, but…

Over my dead body.

I can already picture his amusement when I ask him to remove my collar so I can shift and fetch with the other wolves. Ridiculous. He wouldn’t agree anyway. No one can see my true form, though why Nathaniel cares so much, I still don’t know.

Pondering this, I follow the others down to the wolf pit for breakfast, uneasy that I have only glimpsed the surface of whatever else he is hiding.

I have been studying the prince’s movements. Or attempting to. I have been reluctant to get caught again. To be pinned to a wall like that. So I have kept my distance, and watched him from across corridors. Following him only when certain he couldn’t corner me again.

The result: I still have no idea what part of the castle he inhabits. The only reliable place I’ve been able to locate him is the dining hall at meal times, and it’s hardly the ideal place to draw a weapon.

I sigh as I fill a plate and settle cross-legged on the stone floor with Susie’s pack, completing their loose circle. My fork pushes the eggs around my plate while I sit too lost in thought to say much.

I have made so little progress with my escape plan that I have begun asking myself a question I do not like: Am I even trying?

Byron and Mary sit in my thoughts constantly now, eating away at me like moths in wool. They must be worried. Or perhaps they think I am dead. Surely Byron is not still outside the cottage. Still circling that clearing, still trying to find his way in.

I hope not. Even he cannot be that stubborn.

And what about Mary? Is she well? Her arthritis had worsened over the past year. She had managed the journey from our village of Nordokk to the mountain safehouse, but rarely made the shorter trip down to the market, complaining that her joints were too stiff. The woman could wield a blade as well as Byron, but when I left, she had been struggling to twist open a jar of jam.

I wish suddenly that I were there to help her. To fetch the firewood, carry the water, knead the bread when her hands ached too badly.

I miss them dreadfully, and lately, when I try to picture returning to the safehouse, I struggle to imagine myself in it. After everything I have seen here, how would I sit at that table with Byron, Mary, Ana, Dren, and all the others? What would I say? How would I bring myself to eat dinner, go to bed, wake up and do it all again, knowing there are wolves still here, trapped at the Academy?

I’m not the only one in a sour mood. Harvey came to breakfast today with several bite marks on his neck—wounds he failed to hide with his scarf. Susie is not happy. She is always telling the pack to stay together, to look after each other, to never wander alone after dark. But Harvey, being Harvey, had gone upstairs for a midnight snack. Apparently, he would normally wake Clara, and they would go together. But they had argued the day before—rather, he had done something to annoy her—and so he had not asked.

He had simply gone alone.