Page 181 of Collared by the Vampire Prince

He escorts me back through the sleeping castle himself, and at the iron door in the foyer, orders me to go directly to my room. I don’t know why he doesn’t intend to follow, only that I’m relieved to finally be away from him. Exhaustion has hollowed me out so completely that I can barely summon the energy to wonder why.

I search for the hatred that has sustained me these past weeks, but tonight, I cannot find it. Not even when he catches my elbow and tugs me back, close enough that his breath stirs my hair. Up close, he looks almost as tired as I feel, his face drawn with shadows under his eyes.

“Let us not have a repeat of tonight, hm? Or next time, I shall simply chain you to my bed.” He bares his fangs. “Is that understood?”

The threat should frighten me, except it doesn’t. Perhaps it’s my own exhaustion, but after tonight, the thought of escaping feels as impossible as flying to the moon.

Chapter 27

Kira

Headmaster Arken came to my room the morning after my attempted escape and informed me that I was suspended for a week. He was graver than I had ever seen him.

“I have stationed a guard outside your door. You will remain confined to your room until next Monday morning. I hope this time allows you to heal…and reflect.”

The disappointment in his gaze almost made me squirm, and as far as punishments go, it is surprisingly mild. What rankles is the official account.

According to the Academy, I violated curfew during the storm and slipped down the front steps. The stolen potions, the broken window, the climb up the tower have all been reduced to the foolish misstep of a clumsy girl.

The guard is a natural-born vampire, though that is the kindest thing I can say about him. Each time he escorts me to the bathroom, his expression makes it clear he considers the assignment beneath him.

At first, I contemplated using the bathroom more frequently merely to irritate him, but my heart wasn’t in it. The old me would have, but I don’t want to leave my room any more than I have to. I don’t want to see anybody or do anything.

Mostly, I lie in bed, pacing only until the ache in my ribs forces me to sit again. Susie brings my meals, sometimes accompanied by the others: Clara with homemade soup and fresh rolls, while Harvey recounts gossip with doubtful accuracy and declares that going outside during curfew was ‘ballsy’. I want to tell him the truth, but the Academy has already decided what happened, and contradicting it now would achieve nothing.

I wish I could tell someone, though.

Becky visits once, hovering awkwardly in the doorway before leaving copious Literature notes, Mathematics problems and, most disturbingly, a get-well card from Professor Zott.

Jane surprises me by coming too. She crosses the room without hesitation and embraces me. My ribs protest, but I find myself holding onto her longer than necessary, reluctant to let her go.

The visits help. They fill the hours, give me something else to think about. But they do nothing for the ache beneath it all. I can’t stop thinking of Byron and Mary. I miss them with every breath.

The healer comes on the third morning. She brings restorative draughts, replaces the bandages upon my hands and examines my injuries with suspicious thoroughness.

“Headmaster’s orders?” I ask, watching her closely as she unwraps my left palm. “Or the prince’s?”

She gives me a funny look. “The headmaster’s, of course.” Her expression is almost convincing. She examines the places Nathaniel tended to—the ribs beneath my left breast, both shoulders and the injured joint beneath my shoulder blade.

He must have briefed her. He wants me mended; he simply does not want me to mistake his concern for kindness. I nearly made that mistake upon the tower. But kindness in the rain does not erase the collar around my throat—or the fact that he carried me back into my prison. I stare at the canopy above my bed while the healer winds fresh linen around my palms.

Over the next few days, Susie continues bringing me notes from the lessons I’m missing.

Nathaniel never comes.

I want him to. The admission comes easily. I pace the room muttering arguments under my breath, playing out all the things I will demand when I see him again, raging at him in conversations that never happen.

But most of the time, I simply lie there missing him, listening for footsteps in the corridor and hoping every one of them is his.

By Saturday, the bruising along my ribs has faded to an ugly yellow, the cuts across my palms have closed into pink seams and I can breathe without pain catching beneath my breast. It’s only my shoulders that are still aching, and I have no way of knowing whether my wing is healing. Sometimes a phantom pain throbs beneath my shoulder blade, as though it remains twisted beneath me upon the battlement.

I had thought sunshine and a walk might help me recover. But when I ask to go outside, the guard informs me I am forbidden from leaving the floor until Monday. It seems this is punishment after all. So I return glumly to bed and make a half-hearted effort at my missed work. Professor Marmala’s essay is the only assignment I complete properly, mostly because facing her displeasure seems more exhausting than writing it.

The following Monday, I don’t dress for breakfast until the last possible second. My uniform feels unfamiliar after a week in my nightclothes. I button my white shirt slowly, careful of the tender skin across my unbandaged palms, then fasten my skirt and drag the blazer over my stiff shoulders.

In the bathroom mirror, a stranger approaches through the glass. Her brown hair hangs loose around a face made pale by a week indoors. The collar lies ugly and black against her throat, its silver buckles gleaming beneath the sconces. Her eyes disturb me most. They look flat and unfamiliar.

I clean my teeth without looking away, then back towards the door rather than turn my back upon her.