Page 166 of Collared by the Vampire Prince

“Ha.” The breathless sound bursts from me despite my terror. As though I hadn’t noticed. I kick backwards. My heel connects with something solid—his head?—drawing a painful cry from him, but he does not let go.

Panic surges and I flare my right wing blindly, knocking more glass from the frame. The hooked talon catches something soft. I risk a glance back and find it buried in his cheek, just beneath his eye. I wrench it free, opening a thin red line across his skin.

He curses and staggers back, releasing my foot and taking one school shoe with it.

I scramble onto the wide sill, crouching within the broken frame. Rain lashes through the opening. Beyond my remaining shoe and stockinged toes, the tower drops into endless darkness.

Don’t look down.

Keeping one hand clamped around the window frame, I edge onto the narrow stone ledge outside, my back pressed to the tower. There is barely room for my feet, let alone my wings. A gust makes my wings shudder, threatening to wrench me from the ledge. I drag them in as tightly as the wall allows, with my heart slamming against my ribs.

Oh, fuck. What am I doing?

I risk a glimpse down. Fifteen feet below, a battlement circles the tower, but it is scarcely wide enough to stand. Dropping onto it would only leave me trapped against another wall.

I flatten myself against the rain-slick wall and look up. The lip of the tower roof lies just beyond my reach, but the rough masonry offers enough purchase for my fingers.

The rooftop is my best chance. Enough room to spread my wings and launch. Hopefully, the prince is a poor climber. But how am I supposed to turn to face the tower to climb with my wings in the way?

Movement flashes at the edge of my vision. Nathaniel is hauling himself through the broken window, one arm reaching towards me. His fingers brush the edge of my wing.

“What are you doing? Come back inside!” His shout almost sounds frightened. Frightened of losing his false pet, perhaps. Anger gives me strength. I’d rather die than let him have me.

I drive the talon of my right wing into a crack in the stone and throw my weight towards the wall. For one sickening instant, I swing out over nothing. Then the wind catches me and drives me face-first into the tower. Pain bursts through my cheekbone as my fingers scrape over the stone before finding purchase.

I fold my wings against my back, ignoring the injured left’s protest, and climb. The rough masonry tears at my blood-slick palms as I drag myself towards the roofline, hooking my fingertips into every seam and jut of stone. I seize the edge and haul myself onto the smooth slate. Wind tears at my hair and billows inside the loose smock, threatening to drag me backwards.

The night had been calm beyond the Potions windows. Up here, the wind screams around the tower. Never in my wildest imaginings did I expect to find myself atop the bloody North Tower.

Clawing my way to the peak, I seize the iron spire with both hands. The metal is so cold it sears my wounded palms. For several breaths, I can do nothing except cling to it.

The Academy grounds are almost invisible beneath the fog and rain. Beyond them, the Capital rises through the murk—red lights glowing dimly along its narrow streets, while its tallest black rooftops, chimneys and spires pierce the fog to catch the moonlight. And somewhere beyond the Capital lies the road south to the pine forests and mountains beyond.

Freedom.

I would be flying blind. If my left wing fails, I could slam into a building or plummet between the rooftops—and even if I remain airborne, I do not know how to stop. One wrong angle will kill me.

Broken glass crunches below, and Nathaniel pulls himself onto the rooftop. His silver shirt clings to his chest, dark with rain. A deep gash crosses his left cheekbone, gleaming red and streaking pink beneath the downpour. He is breathing hard, his blond hair fallen into his eyes, the collar looped around a forearm. He straightens upon the steep slate, testing his footing without taking his eyes off me.

“Kira,” he says, more a tired gasp than the angry demand I expected.

“Stay back,” I warn.

He takes one cautious step up the slope.

“I said stay back.”

“And I am telling you not to move,” he retorts.

“You don’t give me orders anymore.”

He breaks eye contact to peer over the roof’s edge into the darkness below. Then his attention returns to me.

“I don’t want you to fall,” he calls over the wind.

“I won’t.” I spread my wings, fighting to keep the wind from catching beneath them. “I’ll fly.”

He stares at me—at my wings shuddering beneath the buffeting wind—in stricken silence, his face pale and intent. Then he gives a small, helpless shake of his head.