Page 12 of Collared by the Vampire Prince

She darts past me just as I whirl around, wrenching both daggers from the wall.

I drop hard to the floor just in time—steel flashes over my head, and both blades thunk into the bedpost behind me, the hilts shuddering from the force of the impact. She breathes hard, brown hair in disarray, her deadly gaze locked on me.

“Don’t tell me I’m growing on you,” I say dryly, pushing myself off the floor. “I should hate to think that was your best attempt.”

She screams and lunges at me.

I move faster.

My hand tangles in her hair, and I slam her back against the wall, bracing one arm beside her head. The impact knocks the breath from her, but she’s fighting—fists, nails, her body twisting beneath my hold.

“Enough,” I command.

She doesn’t stop.

I step closer to pin her properly, my body flush as it cages hers, hard muscle to soft warmth. She’s smaller than me. Feminine. Heat seeps through our clothes, distracting in a way I don’t appreciate.

My face hovers inches from hers.

“Calm yourself,” I say coolly, reaching into my coat with my free hand, searching for something more I can use to restrain her. “Or I will do it for you.”

Her eyes blaze in silent fury.

Then she jerks her head forward and sinks her teeth into my upper arm.

“Fuck!” I cry out.

Pain flares sharply through my arm and spine as I wrench her off me and shove her back onto the bed.

She lands hard, hair spilling across the pillows—then looks up at me, a flash of satisfaction still in her eyes.

“Do you know what we do with unregistered wolves?” I demand, panting.

She merely raises her chin defiantly.

I sigh.

Her recklessness is appalling.

She is a nightmare.

One I need to get under control fast. For her own safety as much as my own.

The king has never lacked imagination when it comes to punishment.

The dungeons. The executioner’s block. A cage in the market square for all to see. The political enemies raped before the royal court—sometimes by the king himself—and passed off as evening entertainment.

My bicep throbs where she bit me, and I shrug off my coat, then begin unbuttoning my shirt.

“What are you doing?” she asks in alarm.

It’s clear what she thinks I’m doing. Undressing.

“Examining your handiwork,” I reply shortly.

I pull the fabric aside. The wound throbs as the damp cloth peels away from it. A neat crescent of tooth marks reddens my skin, several punctures already welling with blood.

Not bad for human teeth.