Page 2 of Collared by the Vampire Prince

The urgency that brought me here abates, but I force myself to take another step.

My foot drifts sideways without meaning to. I correct it, nearly twisting my ankle as I lurch forwards again, teeth clenched with effort.

Behind me, someone exhales under their breath.

I don’t turn, but I can feel them watching now.

Dren is no doubt waiting for me to fail. Ana must be worried. And Byron…he’s no doubt conflicted.

I make it three steps.

Then, without quite knowing why, I turn back, my thoughts scattered. For a moment, I forget what it was I came here to prove, only that I’ve failed miserably.

My fingers curl into fists as I step back onto pine needles, my focus returning.

Byron approaches, with the others behind him. He is stocky like most wolves, only slightly taller than the average human, but he’s solid muscle. His thick black hair is barely touched by age, and a short beard frames his jaw; amber eyes catch the light, the glow muted by concern, and his narrowed pupils are fixed on me.

He doesn’t speak immediately. Instead, he takes me in—my position just inside the treeline, my cloak, my throwing daggers—and his jaw tightens in the particular way that means he is angry at himself more than at me, as if he should have anticipated this.

“You shouldn’t be here, Kira,” he says.

“The walls in the safehouse are thin,” I tell him.

He exhales slowly. “How much did you hear?”

The question stings, especially in front of the others. As if I can no longer be trusted.

“All of it,” I reply flatly. It’s the truth. Their voices had carried through the dark as I lay staring at the ceiling in the narrow bed in the room they’d given me at the mountain safehouse. I’d pressed my ear to the cool wall as I listened to the low murmur of planning from the other side.

The last witch.

The enchanted clearing in the woods.

One day southwest on foot. Only four hours for a wolf’s trot—and they would leave immediately.

Determined to catch up, I had run, keeping downwind whenever I could, slowing when the breeze shifted, and lagging behind when I had to.

“Did anyone see you?” Byron demands.

“Of course not,” I reply, straightening. As if vampires ever bother patrolling the wilderness in their fancy shoes. Behind his back, Dren and Ana exchange looks. “I was careful.”

He gives a small, dismissive shake of his head, as if realising there’s no point sending me back now that I’m here.

“Stay low,” he commands, voice hard. “Do not shift. Do not draw attention. You may stay and watch, but if anything moves in that clearing, you run. Not fight. Run. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” I say.

He studies me for a beat, like he doesn’t quite believe it, then turns back to the clearing.

I bite back a response. I belong here too—if only I could prove it.

The others continue trying to breach the ward while I stay back.

I’m itching to try again. It isn’t like the wards I’ve encountered before, the ones woven around official buildings and other places vampires don’t want anyone getting into. Those are magical walls: once you force your way through, you’re inside.

This one feels more like dense water. Anyone can move through it, but every step is against the current, and I have the strange certainty that the pushback would only grow stronger closer to the cottage.

I want to tell them so, but Byron seems determined not to look at me. His shoulders are stiff as he studies the clearing, though every so often his gaze cuts towards me from the corner of his eye as if I need managing.