Page 200 of Collared by the Vampire Prince

Mark sits back but keeps one hand on my thigh. “This is a private pack ceremony.”

Nathaniel steps inside, his gaze fixed upon Mark’s hand. “Don’t touch her.”

Mark’s fingers tighten instead.

Get up! I tell myself, but I’m too mortified to move.

“Kira came willingly,” Mark says. “She asked to be initiated.”

Nathaniel’s gaze cuts to mine.

I lift my chin, though my voice wavers. “I did.”

“You had no right to give yourself to them.”

Heat burns beneath my skin. “I don’t need your permission,” I spit, pushing myself to half sit up, my legs still pinned beneath Mark’s weight. “I don’t belong to you.”

Nathaniel’s eyes flare brighter. “Then let us correct that.”

Mark rises. “No. She submitted to us. You may be the prince, but you can’t just barge into a private pack ceremony and—”

Nathaniel crosses the attic and catches him by the throat. Mark’s protest chokes off as Nathaniel lifts him off the ground. “I decide who she submits to and when.” He hurls Mark straight through a wooden table. The legs buckle and the tabletop splits beneath him, sending broken planks skidding across the floor.

“Mark!” Chelsea cries, running to help him.

Around us, the other alphas stiffen, shoulders bunching and weight shifting forwards as though ready to attack.

Nathaniel turns slowly, his fangs bared and eyes flashing dangerously. “Anyone else?”

I look from face to face frantically. What are they waiting for? There are twelve of them and only one of him.

“Choose carefully,” Nathaniel lilts.

Then Mark pushes himself upright, blood running from the corner of his mouth, and swings—powerful, but too slow.

Nathaniel catches his fist and twists, wrenching Mark’s arm behind him until his shoulder cracks, dropping him to one knee.

Mark roars in pain. None of the other alphas come to his aid.

“Stop!” Chelsea shouts, rounding desperately on Nathaniel. “Victoria said the collar was hers. She said we could claim Kira!”

“Victoria lied.” Nathaniel releases Mark with a shove that drives him face-first into a wooden post.

The walls shudder, dust raining down from the ceiling as Nathaniel turns towards me. Behind him, Mark sags against the post, nose bleeding, arm hanging uselessly at his side. His good hand slips inside his discarded blazer.

Nathaniel glances back at him, voice cold. “Whatever you’re planning—don’t.”

My breath catches as Mark pulls out a slender black object.

The magic wand.

He flicks it towards Nathaniel.

The air shimmers around us, like a reflection disturbed by water.

Then the pressure hits.

The candles gutter. Dust lifts from the floorboards. Something invisible gathers in the space between Mark and Nathaniel—but instead of striking, it spreads uselessly through the attic in a faint ripple.