Page 73 of Collared by the Vampire Prince

“Yes.”

His lips curl. “Pity. I was quite charmed by your…obvious desire for approval.”

One second, I am holding the cup, the next, I have flung the rest of the tea into his face.

Nathaniel shuts his eyes.

It reminds me of the wine I threw in his face in the carriage. Except that had felt different. I had felt different. Freshly captured. Half-feral with fear. Still fighting him, and the collar, and the awful knowledge of where he was taking me with every breath in my body.

I can’t stop fighting.

The realisation opens somewhere deep in my chest.

I can’t.

I can’t stop.

Nathaniel opens his eyes, his gaze piercing me like ice shards.

For one dangerous heartbeat, I remember exactly who he is. Who I have dared to insult.

He steps around the statue.

I snatch up the tray and try to retreat, but my heel catches on a chunk of fallen stone. My foot skids over the loose rubble, and I stumble backwards into the alcove, my spine striking the wall, the tray still clutched in my hands, the cups rattling against their saucers.

There is nowhere else to go.

Nathaniel stops close enough that I have to tilt my head back again to keep glaring at him. Tea clings to his pale lashes. A drop slips slowly down his cheek.

“I sincerely hope,” he says, voice soft, “that your other talents are less disappointing. If you fuck the way you brew tea, lazy and bitter…Henrikk help us all.”

Heat shoots through me so fast it is almost painful. I do not know what he means by it, but I have the fierce urge to slap him.

“If you’re so desperate for something hot,” I snap, “why don’t you just fuck the teapot?”

I shove the tray against his chest.

He catches it with one deft hand. His other hand closes around my wrist, lightning fast. The air turns sinister. One tug, and he pulls me closer, the tray falling and porcelain smashing at our feet.

I brace for pain. For him to twist my wrist the way he twisted Felix’s. The simple flex of muscle. The way that vampire dropped to the ground. Nathaniel could bring me to my knees just as easily. He does not. His fingers stay locked around my wrist, firm enough to prove he could hurt me, careful enough that he doesn’t. My pulse kicks wildly beneath his grip, and I know he can feel every frantic beat.

His gaze dips, travelling down to my lips. “That mouth,” he says softly, “says such wicked things.”

I wait for the punishment that must surely come.

His eyes lift back to mine, and for one impossible second, the whole world narrows to the space between us. To the warm strength of his fingers around my wrist. To the strange, intent look on his face—as though he is studying something he expected to understand and can’t.

His expression closes, and he releases me so suddenly I stumble back. Stooping to retrieve the empty tray, he pushes it into my hands.

“Back to class, Kira.”

Then he turns and strides away, leaving me standing there with my wrist burning, my face hot, and my heart hammering so hard I barely hear the bell.

It is not until I reach the corridor that the thought catches up with me.

The collar.

I had him alone, away from the others, standing close enough to touch, and I did not ask. I did not even try to bargain with him. Not because I thought he would refuse, but because for several ridiculous minutes, I forgot about the thing locked around my throat. Worse, I forgot to hate him for putting it there.