Page 60 of Collared by the Vampire Prince

“Ah,” I murmur, not taking my eyes off him.

His Highness does not deign to look down this way.

To my annoyance, he looks obscenely well-rested for a man who spent half the night fighting tooth and nail to capture me. His ice-blond hair is combed neatly back, his grey suit sharp and tailored, accentuating the lean lines of his body and every arrogant, fluid movement.

He crosses straight to the vampire table on the edge of the middle tier directly above us, where the vampiress with the blonde pixie cut from last night sits with a glass of wine cupped in her delicate hand, the liquid the same shade of red as her fingernails. She says something I cannot hear, and Nathaniel replies shortly before holding out the roses with all the enthusiasm of a man returning an overdue library book.

I sit a little straighter to get a better look, straining to catch their words over the renewed clatter of cutlery and the eager murmur of students pretending not to watch.

“What’s her name?” I ask, nodding at the vampiress with the pixie cut.

“That’s Victoria,” Becky says. “She’s dating Felix—the vampire beside her with the caramel hair.”

“Dating?” I murmur, watching Victoria’s face light up at the flowers even as she makes no immediate move to take them. “Then why is the prince giving her roses?”

“Maybe it’s her birthday,” Clara suggests.

“They don’t look like birthday flowers,” I point out.

They are red. Like blood. Like romance. Like—

“Maybe she lost someone,” Susie says. “Vampires use red for funerals.”

“And weddings,” Clara adds knowledgeably.

From the way Victoria exclaims in delight and accepts the flowers, hoisting them higher than needed as if brandishing a trophy, she does not appear to be grieving. Nor does she look like a woman receiving flowers from a man she loves. Her delight is too obvious, a performance for the table around her.

For him, perhaps.

She presses the roses briefly to her nose, then says something to Nathaniel with a dazzling smile. Whatever it is makes his jaw tighten.

Then she drops the bouquet carelessly beside her plate, ignoring the perfectly good vase sitting empty nearby, and turns back to her friends as though the prince has already served his purpose.

Nathaniel remains standing a few excruciating seconds longer. Not long enough for anyone else to call it wounded pride. Just long enough for me to notice.

Then he turns from the table and ascends the steps to the staff table where Headmaster Arken sits. He drops into the chair beside him, reaches for Arken’s goblet, and takes a long swallow.

His face twists into a grimace.

The headmaster’s drink must be something very strong if it can make a prince pull a face like that.

Arken calmly takes the goblet back.

“Wish we had wine,” Becky sighs.

“At breakfast?” Clara asks, looking scandalised.

“Yes, at breakfast.”

“Or ever,” a second-year mutters.

I hardly hear them; my focus is fixed on the prince. A footman has refilled his goblet, but before Nathaniel lifts it, his throat works once, almost imperceptibly.

As though he can feel me watching.

Then he drinks and sets the vessel down hard enough for the clink to cut through the noise. His gaze drops like a blade, slicing through the tiers. Down past the vampire tables. Past the edge of the middle tier. Straight into this sunken pit where his eyes find mine.

A gasp catches in my throat, heat and fear rushing through me. I wrench my gaze down to my plate, my pulse leaping as though I’ve been caught doing something far worse than staring.