Page 125 of Collared by the Vampire Prince

I have followed Nathaniel to the vampire dormitories in the west wing several times now, always keeping far behind, but he only ever goes there to visit Victoria. If he has rooms in this part of the castle, I have yet to find them.

What I do know is that he never stays the night. The longest visit I have observed lasted less than an hour, and I am almost certain they spent it talking. I struggled to catch the words, but Victoria sounded different when she was alone with him. Softer. Perhaps he sees a side of her the rest of us don’t.

The possibility left behind a faint, inexplicable irritation. I felt ridiculous spying on them and had to remind myself that I was doing it for the Resistance.

I certainly could not explain why every hair on my arms lifted when I heard Nathaniel laugh at something Victoria said. It was such a light, unfamiliar sound that I found myself straining towards the door, yearning to know what she’d said to draw it from him.

Because information is power.

Because it might help me seduce him.

Because…

Just because.

At least the collar discourages any vampires I pass from questioning me, especially now that everyone seems to assume the prince is my Master. It also helps that Victoria’s door is not directly visible from the common room.

Still, in the time that I’ve been here, I have learned something: despite how frequently the bouquets are replaced, the stale perfume of old blooms seeps into the corridor, making the vampire dormitories smell like a perpetual wake.

But never like sex.

Victoria and her room sometimes carry the thick, musky scent I’ve come to associate with Felix after Zott’s lessons.

Nathaniel never smells like sex. He always smells cold, clean, and entirely untouched. For some reason, that feels like vital information—even if I can’t yet see how it might serve the Resistance.

That night, I hang his coat over the chair beside my bed. Not that I want anything of his anywhere near me. But memorising an enemy’s scent is only sensible.

I tell myself that twice before I fall asleep.

The obvious solution is Victoria. She must know where Nathaniel lives. She may even know when he is usually there alone. And once I find his quarters, I might discover intelligence. Private letters from the king. Orders from Wintermaw Keep. Maps, names, correspondence—anything that might prove useful to the Resistance. His private rooms could contain all manner of valuable information.

That is the only reason I find myself wondering what they look like. Whether they are austere or lavish. Whether he keeps them as unnaturally tidy as the rest of himself. Whether he sleeps beneath heavy curtains or leaves the windows open to the night.

It’s so I can visualise searching it, quickly and quietly, once he is dead. And visualise killing him. That is the priority. And my locket. I must get it back. Unfortunately, I cannot simply ask Victoria where her fiancé sleeps. So I need to make her take me there.

My first attempt is subtle. At breakfast the following morning, Nathaniel presents Victoria with another arrangement of roses. They are dark red and tied with a black satin ribbon. She thanks him without looking up from her tea, though I catch the fond curve of her smile.

A sliver of unease catches beneath my ribs. She might actually keep these.

I would—were I in her place, which I certainly have no desire to be. They truly are lovely.

Nathaniel has long since left the dining hall by the time breakfast ends. When Victoria and her friends rise, the flowers remain where he placed them, untouched.

I wait until the dining hall has almost completely cleared and the footmen are already burdened with plates and goblets, then climb from the wolf pit and collect the bouquet from beside Victoria’s empty chair.

“Ahem.”

I glance up, expecting a footman. Instead, the wolf shifter has greying brows and a barrel chest barely contained by a starched white waistcoat and matching white gloves, the cut of his coat finer than the others.

The butler.

Fuck.

He strides towards me with the grim expression of a man who has personally discovered the dessert spoon in the wrong orifice.

“Lady Victoria sent me back for these,” I say in the snootiest accent I can muster.

His expression remains suspicious. “She always leaves them here.”