Page 52 of Collared by the Vampire Prince

“I thought so. I imagine you’ve had a rough night? We didn’t really get a chance to talk.”

“No, we didn’t…” I say cautiously. She says it like she expected us to. Like we are friends overdue for a catch-up. I immediately decide that I have no intention of rehashing last night’s events with anyone.

As the headmaster’s pet, Susie may already know the broad strokes—and if she doesn’t, I’m certainly not going to supply them.

“I’m just glad the Academy finally got my paperwork sorted out,” I say, trying for enthusiasm, but it comes out sarcastic instead. “Admin error, you know. Annoying.”

Susie blinks. “Oh, yes. Of course.”

There’s an awkward pause before she lifts the stack of clothes and towels a little higher, her cheery tone returning with effort. “Well, come on. Most of the others are only just waking, so you should have the bathroom to yourself.”

“Sounds great,” I say, and this time I mean it.

I step out, pulling the door shut behind me. I still can’t detect any magic. Even the magic of the burning torches barely registers through the dead weight of the collar.

Susie leads me further along the corridor, past more rows of numbered doors. A couple are ajar. From one, I hear someone groaning about the hour. From another, muffled laughter.

It should feel ordinary, students waking and the morning beginning, but it doesn’t. The corridor is too narrow, the stone too oppressive, the ceiling too low. Everything smells faintly of damp, iron and too many bodies living underground.

Susie stops outside an unnumbered door.

“Bathroom.”

Inside, the room is tiled in faded cream and green. Some of the tiles are chipped; one corner of the ceiling has bloomed dark with old water stains. But it is cleaner than I expect. There are sinks along one wall, several toilet stalls along the other, and shower stalls at the back with brass fittings polished by use.

“Enchanted toilets,” Susie explains. “No bathtubs, but the showers have hot water. And you’ll find soaps inside.”

Hot water.

Every tired, aching part of me rejoices.

Susie hands me the towel and sets the clothing bundle on a bench.

“I’ll wait out here. Take as long as you need.”

I don’t need to be told twice. But as I go to enter a stall, Susie stops me.

“Oh, not that one; it doesn’t work. Magic has faded. Well, technically it still works, but sometimes the showerhead screams.”

I have no idea what to say to that. I enter the next stall and shut the door with a soft scrape. I kick off my boots and remove my socks, the tiles cold against my feet. Next I peel off my ruined clothing, wincing when dried blood tugs at the fabric near my collarbone. There are scratches there from the made vampire, red and angry but already healing. Bruises bloom across my arms and ribs where it had overpowered me. Compared to those, the ache in my shoulder from Nathaniel pinning me against the carriage barely warrants notice.

For all his strength, Nathaniel had shown restraint. The made vampire had only shown violence.

Still, the bite mark I left Nathaniel with is probably far worse. Unlike shifters, vampires heal slowly. Slower than humans, even. Mary said it’s not something vampires like anyone knowing.

I give a tired grin as I shove my clothes aside and stand under the showerhead.

The prince might have collared me, but he did not escape unscathed.

I stare at the brass handle for a moment before turning it until hot water bursts over me.

I almost make a sound. Maybe I do—a tiny whimper as the water hits my scalp first, then my face, shoulders, and back. It seeps through my hair, heat sinking into my sore, stiff muscles.

Dirt and blood run in thin, rust-coloured streams towards the drain. I brace one hand against the tiles and bow my head beneath the water, eyes stinging.

I’m not crying. But relief swells so sharply it hurts.

The heat wipes everything else clean. My body feels almost new beneath it, transported back in time to a roaring fireplace. There is only warmth. A blanket tucked around my shoulders and buttered toast in my hands as I sink into our patchwork couch. Byron relaxed enough to make lewd jokes over his ale that Mary pretends to scold him for, even though her mouth has always been fouler than his.