Page 17 of Collared by the Vampire Prince

The bottle.

My fingers twitch, but the vampire is watching me closely, so I look at the food instead. The sight reminds me how hungry I am.

There’s no roast chicken, but there are fruits, cheeses, sweetcakes, and a small jar of cloudy liquid with shrivelled dark pieces floating inside.

He unscrews the lid, spears one with a fork, and pops it into his mouth.

“Pickled mushroom,” he explains, catching my questioning look.

I wrinkle my nose.

He chews slowly, his eyes laughing at me even though his mouth never quite smiles.

I avert my gaze to the cheese and fruits, a dull hunger knotting my stomach.

“Please, help yourself,” he says after a moment, gesturing at the tray. “There’s plenty.”

I shake my head in annoyance.

“I suppose the gag does make it rather difficult,” he says sympathetically. “Wine?”

I watch as he slowly pours some into a crystal goblet, the deep red liquid catching the light.

My throat aches with thirst. I would give anything for a drink of water. Or wine, as it were.

This time, I nod. Surely, he’ll remove the gag so I can drink it.

He pours me a glass too and hands it to me. Then he sits back, drawing a sip as if this were an evening of leisure.

Asshole.

He swallows, lips smacking once, then asks, “Is the vintage not to your taste?”

A furious sound tears out of me through the gag as I jerk my wrist, sloshing the wine straight at him.

It splashes across his face. Drips down his throat over the dark fabric of his coat. The red spreads slowly, staining the fine weave of his neck scarf and catching in the icy strands of his hair.

He doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t wipe it away.

Doesn’t move at all.

And with a fresh surge of anger, I realise he expected me to do that.

I wait, every muscle in my body braced for the inevitable retaliation. My hands are free. I’ll fight him if he tries anything.

I tense when he lifts his glass—but he merely takes another calm sip.

Confused and annoyed, I toss the goblet at his feet. Petulance. That’s all I have left. Disappointingly, it bounces without shattering.

“Were you always this stubborn?” he asks.

I shrug, pondering this. Mary always said I was too stubborn. ‘Obstinate, just like Byron,’ she would say, and it would make me proud, as if he and I were truly related, like he was my real father. I never thought of it as a flaw until now. Or that it could so easily be used against me.

I look out the window. Dark woods slide past outside; the trees are close and endless. I search for anything familiar. Any sign of where we are, but there is nothing.

Only the road.