Page 4 of Collared by the Vampire Prince

We need her powers and any advantage she can give us.

The Resistance is dying. The old optimism is long gone, and new recruits are rare. Most wolves now live and grow up in the Capital, surrounded by vampire rule from birth. Few are permitted to live beyond the city unless they are serving on some vampire’s country estate or working under close supervision elsewhere in the kingdom. Even when approached, too many of the younger wolves don’t want to fight. They’ve forgotten what it means to be a wolf.

Or what freedom feels like.

Every wolf is summoned to Volmasque Academy after they turn eighteen. There is no avoiding it. Once you come of age and the school year begins, the carriage comes, and you go, same as every wolf before you.

What sickens me is that some actually look forward to it. Not just the Academy itself, but what comes after. They dream of proving themselves worthy of a coveted Vampire Master—of being chosen as a pet, pampered and displayed like a trophy on some noble’s arm. They call it a better life. A privilege. More glamorous than the fate awaiting the rest of us in the Capital: blood banks to ‘donate blood’ into glass vials, trips to wealthy houses to be fed upon at breakfast, or contracted to restaurants where you’re drained until you’re hollowed out.

It’s the same fate either way. And it’s never just about blood. Pet or donor, they’ll fuck you regardless. And they’ll ensure you act grateful. For some wolves, it isn’t an act.

I could never want it. Not any of it.

Which is precisely why I cannot turn back. The Resistance is our only chance to restore the world to what it was before the Vampire King subjugated our people.

I listen to the magic again.

Hello, creature. Why do you delay? You are needed elsewhere. Go. Go!

Behind me, the others are still talking. Byron’s voice is low and careful, as if even now, he wants to prevent me from overhearing.

I tune them out.

The magic has texture. I can feel it like cloth between my fingers, the old weave worked by someone who knows exactly what they are doing. I reach towards it with something that isn’t quite a thought—more like an intention.

Let me in, I try. I’m not a threat.

The spell wavers slightly.

The creature speaks, I hear it say. It speaks.

I soften my intention further. It’s alright. It’s…me. I’m a friend.

Friend. The word is repeated, oozing scepticism.

An idea strikes me. Ever so gently, I imagine I belong in that cottage, at least temporarily, as if the witch herself has invited me to tea. Hello. I’m here. Won’t you let me in? It’s me.

There is a pronounced pause as the magic stills, like some immense creature tilting its head to regard me. Then something in the spell brushes against my awareness, testing the edges of what I am.

I’m a friend, I tell it. I’m your friend.

“What are you doing?” Ana asks, and I realise the three wolves are staring at me.

“Talking to herself.” Dren smirks.

Byron says nothing. He knows, though I don’t know if he ever believed me when I told him about my ability to sense magic. But to the other two, I must look bizarre with my lips moving soundlessly.

I wave them off, casually flipping off Dren in the process.

The truth is, I haven’t a clue what I’m doing. I’ve never spoken to magic before. Never attempted to start a conversation or encountered anything quite like this.

Dren opens his mouth to press further, eyeing me as though I’ve gone mad, but Byron lifts a finger to his lips. He’s watching me intently. Then he gives a small nod.

Relief settles in my chest. I let my thoughts turn inward as magic swirls around me like water in a glass bowl, uncertain. It’s testing me, like it cannot decide what to do—whether to let me pass or push me out entirely.

Your friend, I remind it, shaping the thought carefully. I’m here to have tea. I’m home. Let me in.

It hesitates.