Page 53 of Collared by the Vampire Prince

The feeling soon ebbs.

Steam has filled the stall by the time I lift my head. I breathe it in, then turn my attention to the bottles and jars arranged on the small shelf: dark glass vials of hair oil, bottles of liquid soap and oil, little pots of skin cream, a jar of tooth powder, a horn comb, a folded washcloth, a gilded scrub brush, and a sponge that looks softer than my bed.

The assortment belongs in a noblewoman’s dressing room, not a communal bathroom.

I sniff through the soaps warily before finding a creamy one in a bottle that smells like raspberries and cherries. Absurdly sweet. For one foolish moment, the luxury seems like a kindness. Then I remember who benefits from keeping wolves clean and sweet-smelling.

I shove it back and search for something plainer and less fruity. Something that smells more like me.

At the back of the shelf, I find a simple bar of soap with the faint scent of jasmine—the same fragrance as the soap Mary used to buy me at the village market.

I work it into the brush and scrub my skin until it feels raw, then rinse my hair until it no longer smells of alley filth and sweat. Until I can no longer detect the faint masculine scent that had clung to the wool fibres of the prince’s coat as I slept beneath it.

Finally, the last traces of yesterday vanish down the drain.

I try to tug the collar away from my throat to wash beneath it. It yields just enough to permit water and soap to slip under the edge, then tightens again, as if offended by the attempt.

I had almost forgotten it on the walk here. As if the enchantment knows exactly how tight it has to be.

I try not to look at it when I step out and wrap myself in the towel, catching only a glimpse of my hair hanging lank and damp around my face in the row of oval-shaped mirrors lining the opposite wall.

Susie sorts through the spread of skirts, shirts, and blazers on the bench while I towel-dry my hair.

“Try these on for size,” she says. “They should do for today, but we can have them tailored properly if—”

“That won’t be necessary,” I say. “I’m sure they’ll fit fine.”

And I won’t be here long enough to care.

I dry quickly, then turn my back to her and rewrap the black cloth across my breasts. The fresh white shirt is crisp and too formal, the buttons small and fiddly. The skirt comes next—red, pleated, and appallingly short.

“Cute,” Susie says.

I try to hide my grimace. I could have done without that comment.

I stare down at the skirt, trying to tug the hem lower. It barely reaches mid-thigh, leaving several inches of olive skin exposed above my socks.

I can’t remember the last time I wore a skirt. I mostly wear trousers, except for the occasional country dance Mary dragged me to, and even those dresses went well past my knees.

“What’s wrong?” Susie asks, catching my frown.

“It’s too short.”

“That’s the uniform.”

“It barely covers anything,” I protest, slipping on a pair of brown shoes she’s found for me.

“It covers plenty. Besides, it will look longer once the blazer is on,” she promises, handing it to me to try on.

It really doesn’t.

“What if I bend over?” I ask, exasperated, still tugging at the skirt. “To tie my shoes, or—”

“Don’t.”

I glance at her. “What?”

She shrugs. “Don’t bend over.”