Page 173 of Collared by the Vampire Prince

“No.”

“Kira. It may be broken.”

“Exactly! You’ll hurt me.”

“I will try my best not to.”

He waits.

I sigh. It is the waiting that defeats me. Slowly, I turn enough to give him access.

His fingers move beneath the hooked joint, barely touching. He follows the edge where dark membrane meets bone, feeling for the injury with such care that the gentleness is almost harder to endure than pain would have been.

A gasp slips from me, and the wing twitches towards him.

His hand freezes. “Did I hurt you?”

I swallow. “No.”

His brows draw together. “You flinched.”

“Reflex.”

He touches it again, even more lightly—which is worse. Sensation shivers through the entire length, exquisite enough to steal my breath. No one has ever touched my wings before. Not like this.

Without thinking, I press my wing a hair’s breadth closer.

Something changes in his face. His gaze travels over the dark span, the fine veins beneath the rain-slick membrane and the hooked talon at each joint.

His thumb strokes my wing.

Once.

Then again.

The touch is slow and soothing. Some of the tension leaves my body, and the part of me that ought to rebel falls strangely quiet.

“Your wings are beautiful,” he murmurs, almost as if to himself.

I study him, certain I will find mockery there. “Liar.”

“I lie when I must.” His thumb moves carefully over the uninjured membrane. “But I am not lying about this.” There is no amusement, only a quiet sincerity as his gaze returns to mine. “You are beautiful,” he says softly. “I have always thought so.”

“Always?” The word slips out before I can stop it, half perplexed and half curious.

“Always.”

“How long is always?”

“Long enough to know how much flying matters to you. How stubbornly you keep trying until you succeed.” His voice drops. “How you cried when you failed.”

Heat rises into my cheeks, and not only because of his words. His thumb traces the edge of my wing, sending warmth shivering through the membrane and down my back, pooling low in my stomach.

“They were tears of frustration,” I insist.

He smiles fondly, revealing a faint crease beside his mouth I have never noticed before. “Long enough to know you pick wildflowers when you think no one is watching.”

A chill moves through me that has nothing to do with the rain, at odds with my burning face.