Page 161 of Collared by the Vampire Prince

The link bends beneath my molars, and I wrench until it snaps.

The king lurches.

Then the second chain jolts free.

By the time the third breaks, my teeth throb and every muscle in my neck strains to keep me balanced.

I bite through the fourth. I plan to spring away at the last moment, but I move too late. The chain snaps and his body plunges, carrying me with it. We fall barely a foot before a fifth chain catches him with a violent jerk, leaving us swinging beneath it.

Scrambling up his back, I realise one more chain remains. It is blackened with age and hidden amongst the shadows overhead. It is thicker than the others, fastened to an iron collar concealed beneath the fur at his throat.

They collared him. After killing and stuffing and mounting him for display, the bastards fucking collared him. Or perhaps he died wearing it. The thought is too horrid to dwell upon. Rage lends me strength as I climb towards it and close my teeth around the lowest link.

The iron deforms but does not yield. Pain flashes as I bite harder, jaw muscles straining until pain shoots into my molars. The chain groans but refuses to split. I release it, panting.

It’s no use.

That’s when I spot the small princess on the other side of him, tucked against his ermine collar, her snow-white fur stark against its black spots. The need to free her grips me, so sudden and urgent that I do not question it.

I crawl closer to inspect her body. It does not hang from a separate chain. Instead, thick stitches bind her against her father’s side. I wince. Is there no limit to Henrikk’s cruelty? I try not to imagine who pulled the thread. Whether Nathaniel merely watched—or did it himself.

I do not want to believe it. As awful as Nathaniel is—indifferent, arrogant, needlessly cruel—his actions do not always match his words. I have glimpsed something else in him. Something I cannot reconcile with the vampire who would do this.

Yet here is the evidence before me. His name is engraved on the plaque above. Any excuse I make for him is merely proof I have been a prisoner here too long.

I stare at the little princess; her eyes are mercifully shut. She looks so peaceful that an aching part of me wishes I could wake her.

Instinctively, I lean closer, nudging her with my snout.

The motion sends a breath of air across her fur.

Dust. Old fur. Her father’s scent. Ermine. A trace of something bitter—a preservation chemical? And beneath those scents—nothing.

I draw another breath. The pelt does not smell as it should. Wrong in a way I feel but cannot name. I adjust my grip upon the king and lean closer. Slow, measured footsteps enter the hall below.

I freeze. Then slowly turn my head to the end of the hall.

The red doors ease shut.

Nathaniel stands just inside them.

He’s wearing black trousers and a dark coat, and a silver shirt underneath that looks like he threw it on—untucked at the waist and unfastened at his throat. His icy-blond hair is disordered across his forehead.

The chandelier nearest me throws far too much light across the king’s suspended body, still swaying slightly.

“Out,” I breathe.

Its flames dim, then vanish.

Nathaniel is utterly still, only his head turning slowly as he scans the room.

Left, then right, sweeping over the benches beneath me.

I hold my breath, painfully aware of how exposed I am, clinging vertically to the king as he hangs by his neck.

Nathaniel has not seen me.

“Kira?”