Page 180 of Collared by the Vampire Prince

Nathaniel curses under his breath and seizes my wrist, pulling me closer as he turns my palm towards the light. A fresh cut crosses my fingertip, a bead of blood swelling along it. Worse, glass still glints in the older tears across my palm, and blood wells wherever I move my fingers.

Nathaniel stares at my hand.

“They’re fine,” I mumble. “I can clean them myself—”

Nathaniel gives a derisive snort. “You will do no such thing. Stay there.”

He rises and begins pulling open cabinet drawers.

A door opens and a matronly vampiress appears, her hair pinned up and a nightrobe wrapped around her. Clearly roused from sleep, she bustles over. “Your Highness, what happened?”

“Broken glass,” he says shortly, squinting at a glass bottle.

“Oh, poor dear. I can see to her. You needn’t—”

“I would strongly suggest you go back to bed,” Nathaniel says impassively, but with enough authority that the command is clear.

She hesitates, glances between us, then dips her head and withdraws. The door clicks shut behind her.

“Why did you send her away?” I ask.

Nathaniel glances at me but doesn’t answer. Perhaps he doesn’t know, either. He uncorks a small bottle and cleans my palms with a cloth. The liquid is cool and has the pungent smell of herbs.

“Anaesthetic,” he murmurs.

The soreness dulls, but not entirely. When the tweezers begin their work, I feel the pressure of each shard drawn free, distant and strange, as though it is happening to someone else’s hands.

“Does it hurt?” he asks as he extracts a deeper shard.

“It stings a little.”

He douses my hands in another slosh and asks me again. “Better?”

I nod.

He works in silence after that, head bent, and eyes narrowed in concentration. Piece by piece, glass clinking into a little dish. Then he rinses my palms with a clear fluid, smooths cream that smells of sage and cloves over the raw skin, and dabs more across the deepest cuts before winding a bandage around each hand.

I’m dazed and strangely mesmerised. “You’ve done this before,” I observe softly.

He nods.

I think that is all he means to say. He ties off the second bandage and checks it, adjusting the wrap a fraction.

Then, without looking up: “My father killed a great many people to seize these lands. And more to hold them.” He licks his lips slowly. “Sometimes I think they were the fortunate ones.”

“Is your life really so terrible?” I ask. The question comes out flat, as though I no longer care what the answer is. But I do, however faintly. Because if even he is not happy—if all of this has brought him nothing—then what was any of it for?

He raises his gaze to mine. His blue eyes are intent, almost solemn, as he says, “I am not thinking of myself.”

“Will you tell me more?” I ask.

“No.”

The answer comes so quickly, so coldly, that it lands like a blow. He stands, clearly expecting me to do the same. Whatever small, foolish part of me had still been reaching towards him goes quiet as I force myself to my feet.

“Light off,” he commands, and the lamp goes dark as the flames die.

I want to close my eyes and simply stop. Instead, I follow him out.