Page 170 of Collared by the Vampire Prince

The tapering roof ends several feet above us, its flared lip blocking any view of the slate tiles and spire beyond. He must have swung from the eaves and dropped onto the narrow walkway encircling the tower, with nothing but a low, rain-slick parapet between him and the same fall that nearly killed me.

He could have died reaching me.

I look at him properly.

Rain runs from his hair and down the hard planes of his face. His breathing is still uneven, his skin ghostly white, his eyes fixed upon me as though he has not yet convinced himself I am alive.

“Are you hurt?” he asks.

“No,” I lie at once.

In truth, every part of me aches. My ribs throb where they struck the parapet, though by some miracle I do not think they are broken, or I’d be in agony. My palms are scraped raw, my shoulder joints burn, and something hot and vicious pulses through the base of my left wing.

But he is the enemy.

He does not need to know where I am weakest.

His breath leaves him in something between a laugh and a shudder. He clearly does not believe me.

I attempt to stand, but the gallery tilts beneath my feet.

Nathaniel rises with me, one hand hovering near my waist. “Why am I not convinced?” He scans me from head to toe, his gaze lingering over my shoulder.

“My wing,” I admit miserably. “I hurt it leaving the hall.”

His eyes sharpen. “The doorway?”

I nod.

“Let me see.” I hesitate, then turn and begin to extend my left wing towards him.

Pain explodes through my ribs and shoulder, and my balance vanishes.

Nathaniel catches me before I pitch sideways, one arm wrapping around me while the other braces against the tower wall. His knee strikes the wet stone. My body folds against his, supported entirely by the strength of his arms.

His shoulder hangs above the low parapet, with nothing beyond it but rain and open air. A single violent twist would take us both over.

A worse thought occurs. I could throw my weight sideways. Drag him with me before he could recover. The tower would spin above us, the ground rushing up through the darkness.

One wolf for Volmasque’s prince.

Henrikk stripped of his heir.

The Resistance would call it a worthy trade, even if Byron never admitted it.

All I have to do is move.

Move!

My body locks, terror clawing through my stomach. Try as I might, I cannot will myself to do it. To sacrifice myself to kill him.

Even now, injured and bruised, with my escape plan in tatters and after all I’ve seen of the Academy…

I can’t.

The knowledge burns.

Coward.