Page 179 of Collared by the Vampire Prince

Next, he asks me to breathe deeply, although the pain catches before my lungs are full. Everything hurts more than it did when we were outside. Perhaps the shock is wearing off.

“Fractured, I think,” Nathaniel declares, withdrawing his hand. “Or badly bruised.”

As he withdraws his hand, I stare at the thin cut my talon left across his cheek.

“Your face is cut.”

He touches it absently, then shrugs one shoulder. “I’ve suffered worse wounds, at any rate. No offence.”

I snort, though it pulls painfully at my ribs. “Letter opener?”

A shadow of a smile touches his lips. “A wolf bit me, actually.” He rises and begins removing his coat. The sodden wool clings to his shoulders, forcing him to peel it away.

The faint amusement dies from me.

A dark patch has spread across his silver shirt, directly over the place I drove the letter opener into his side.

“You’re bleeding,” I say.

He glances down as though he has only just noticed. “So I am.”

“Hasn’t it healed?” I ask. Then, disgruntledly, “You did drink my blood, after all.”

“That is not how feeding works,” he says, glancing at the dark patch upon his shirt. “Your blood restored my strength so I could heal. But vampires heal rather slowly.”

I consider that distinction. The blood gave him strength, but his body has to do the healing. Then I remember the restorative draughts.

“Here.” I fish one of the green vials from my blazer and hold it out. “You should drink this. It should speed up the healing.”

“How…thoughtful. Though I was unaware you had mastered the art of brewing potions.” His voice is dripping with sarcasm.

I shake the contents. “Do you want it or not?”

“No.” His gaze drops pointedly to my ribs. “You need it more than I do.”

“I have more.”

I rummage through my blazer with my sore fingers and close them around something soft. When I pull it free, I find a slightly flattened bread roll. Only hours ago, this bread had been part of my hopeful plan for freedom.

“Bread?” Nathaniel asks slowly, arching an eyebrow.

I offer it to him mockingly.

His brow lifts higher. “No. Thank you.”

I return it to my pocket and search beneath the bacon until my fingers knock against glass. A second vial emerges intact.

“See?” I hold it up. “I have more.”

“Then drink it.”

“Only if you drink yours.” I don’t know why I’m insisting.

He regards me for a long moment before pulling out the stopper. He drains the draught in a single swallow, and I follow. It tastes of bitter herbs and sweet lime—strange, but not unpleasant. Warmth settles low in my chest, gradually loosening the pain beneath my ribs.

I’ll take one over a bulfur seed any day.

I reach into my blazer in search of the third vial. Something sharp slices the pad of my finger. I cry out and snatch my hand back.