Page 136 of Collared by the Vampire Prince

“Please do,” he says. “Invite him here. Bring every enforcer he owns. Perhaps I’ll speak to him too. He’ll be interested to hear of the games you insist on playing with the Crown’s reputation.”

Victoria recoils as though he has struck her. Then her face hardens. “You are impossible.”

“The apple does not fall far from the tree.” His smile is thin. “If you find me difficult, I would think carefully before involving my father. Some say he is quite mad.”

My breath catches. People call Henrikk the Mad King in whispers, when they are certain no one loyal to the Crown can hear. But I never expected to hear the words from his own son.

Victoria seems equally taken aback. For once, she has no answer.

Nathaniel straightens his cuffs. “Good. Then we understand one another,” he says. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

Victoria gives a furious huff and turns away.

“At my table, not yours,” he adds. “It is time we presented a united front.”

She stops. “You want me to sit at the high table? Beside you and the headmaster?”

He smiles pleasantly. “Why not? I’m sure we can find a spare chair.”

Some of the tension leaves Victoria’s face. Her mouth softens, pleased despite herself. Then Nathaniel shuts the door in her face.

“Argh!” Victoria glares at the closed door, then strides away muttering, her heels striking the stone hard enough to echo.

I wait until the sound disappears, and give Nathaniel several minutes to cool down—though not enough for his temper to recover completely—then slip out from behind the tapestry and approach his door.

Only now do I notice the dark metal handle is curved into the shape of a serpent.

Drawing a deep breath, I knock.

“What?” Nathaniel snaps from inside.

I open the door.

He stands before the ornate mirror, staring at his reflection like the vain prick he is. Except his hair is in disarray, as though he has spent the last several minutes dragging his hands through it. The first two buttons of his shirt are undone, his cravat lying discarded across the desk. His gaze finds me in the glass. Then it drops to my mouth.

He turns, the irritation on his face transforming into something else. “You’re back.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I came to apologise. I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

“I’m sure you didn’t,” he says dryly.

He gestures towards the armchair opposite his, but I remain standing. He drops into his own chair and reaches for the decanter. I step forward.

“Please. Allow me.”

He raises a brow. “Allow you to pour?”

“Yes. I have been attending Etiquette classes, as you are aware.”

“On the contrary,” he drawls. “I was unaware you stayed put long enough to learn anything useful.”

I smile demurely and sink into my best curtsy. By the time I rise, his brow has climbed higher.

“Very well.” He relinquishes the decanter. “Show me what you have learnt.”