Page 45 of Collared by the Vampire Prince

It’s tiny. Dull. Dingy.

A cell, indeed.

“Go on,” he says.

The carriage. His hand at my throat. The alley.

A cold knot forms in my stomach. I don’t believe he’s simply going to let me go to bed.

“What are you really going to do to me?” I blurt, not even pretending to sound unafraid now.

Something passes over his expression. More tiredness than amusement. “Nothing tonight. I’ve no interest in dealing with your teeth again.”

“And tomorrow?”

He leans a fraction closer, his eyes glinting. “Why? Care to pencil me into your busy schedule?”

I let out a slow breath, the fight draining out of me. I don’t know which version of him I’m meant to answer—the one who commands, the one who punishes, or the one who mocks.

“You’re exhausting.”

He lets out a brief, wicked laugh.

“What’s so funny?” I ask.

“Now you know how I feel about you. And why I’ve no intention of burdening myself with a pet.”

I roll my eyes. Whatever. I just want to sleep and recover my strength.

I peer into the room, taking in the narrow bed, its mattress covered with a grey sheet. There’s no pillow or covers. At least I’ll have it to myself. I need to be alone with my thoughts, away from him.

“Where do you sleep?” Too late, I realise how it sounds.

His lips twitch at the corners. “Not here.”

He gestures at the doorway, and I reluctantly step inside, half expecting him to slam the door and seal me in.

Worse.

He follows me in.

The room is little more than a cell. The narrow bed against one wall, a desk, a wardrobe with its doors hanging open, and a wooden chair. Rough stone walls. Sagging timber overhead. Some unlit, half-melted candles on a bare shelf with an empty pitcher.

The only luxury is a small clock fixed above the door, its enchanted face glowing red.

Four o’clock.

“Why is everything red?” I say glumly, mostly to myself.

“You can ask the lights to change colour,” Nathaniel says. “This is your domain, after all.”

I look around the bleak little room. “Great.”

It’s freezing in here. And I have nothing. Not even a change of clothes. I can only imagine what a mess I look—hair tangled, tunic torn, dirt and blood worked into the fabric.

I inspect the wardrobe doors, loose on their hinges.

“No mirror,” I note.