Page 142 of Collared by the Vampire Prince

Spit drips onto the rug between his slippered feet.

Agonising seconds pass before he relents, and he allows me a few seconds to gasp for air before returning to thrusting in and out of my mouth, using me exactly as he promised he would.

Wet, filthy sounds fill the quiet between the crackling of the flames.

Nathaniel’s breathing grows ragged. He tugs impatiently at the cardigan, shrugs it from his shoulders and lets it fall beside the chair. The white shirt beneath is already rumpled.

He must be close.

He has to be. Either way, I cannot take much more of this.

It is time to draw the knife.

As his head tips back and his breathing grows harsher, I slide my hand down my sleeve, searching for the familiar handle.

Nothing. Just empty fabric. My fingers search desperately, brushing only the bare skin of my forearm.

Cold panic spikes through my chest. The knife is gone.

Where did it go?

Where—

Above me, Nathaniel clears his throat.

I blink and focus up on his narrow face. On the slow, sinister smile curving his mouth.

“Looking for something, pet?” His voice is quiet. Almost fond. His hand has left my hair. Cold metal presses against my cheek.

I freeze, my mouth still full.

From the edge of my vision, I glimpse the paring knife in his grip. The bastard must have taken it when he held my jaw, while I was too focused on his threat against Byron and Mary to notice. But how did he know it was there? My stomach drops as I remember him catching my wrist.

He must have felt the knife beneath the sleeve of my blazer.

“You will finish what you started,” he informs me. “Is that understood?”

I cannot speak. Cannot look away from the blade. Nathaniel turns it slowly until the edge kisses the corner of my mouth. A thin line of my spit wets the metal.

“I said, is that understood?”

I realise what he wants. The humiliation of it. I try to answer. “Mhhfghh.” It sounds nothing like yes.

“Yes, Sir,” he corrects.

Is he fucking kidding me? The blade presses harder. I cannot tell whether it has broken the skin.

“Go on,” he whispers. “Say it.”

As I try again, he slides another inch into my throat. My vision flashes white as my throat convulses, the words dissolving into another muffled, meaningless sound.

Bastard.

“Hmm.” He regards me with disappointment. “We’ll work on that.”

He pulls out, and I gasp for air.

He tosses the knife aside. It clatters near the fire, far beyond my reach, and his fingers return to my hair and angle my head towards him.