Page 72 of Collared by the Vampire Prince

I blink. “Show you…?”

“Yes.” He interlaces his long fingers and rests his chin on them, still leaning over the statue like some bored, beautiful gargoyle. A gargoyle that could only be made more beautiful with its head missing. “Present your tea ceremony.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

I stand frozen.

That was a lie. I’ve spent years taking pride in ignoring every scrap of etiquette anyone tried to teach me, and now I don’t know the first thing about tea ceremonies. Or high tea, for that matter. Ana would have excelled at this sort of thing. She was always better at appearing refined, like she belonged amongst civilised people.

But Nathaniel is watching me, and that makes retreat impossible.

“Fine.” I set the tray down on what remains of the wolf’s back and clear my throat. “First, one must boil the water.”

“Mm.”

“And select the tea.”

“And you chose—?”

I shrug. “Dry herby stuff.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know.”

I hesitate. I hadn’t been paying attention earlier when I added the leaves, but I can smell the blend now: thyme, bergamot, vanilla, and some sharp black tea I don’t recognise.

Instead of answering, I pour a cup of tea, letting it overfill and slosh over the saucer and tray.

“Such technique,” he purrs.

“Your Highness,” I say acidly, sliding the brimming cup towards him, hoping the quivering surface disguises the tremble in my hands.

“Hmm.” He takes the rim between his fingertips and rotates the cup slowly until the handle faces him.

I realise I am holding my breath only when he curls his fingers around the handle and lifts the cup to his lips. His lips part, revealing the sharp point of his fangs, his nostrils flaring as he sniffs the tea, his eyes drifting momentarily shut as he sips.

This would be an excellent time to hit him. Or send the tea flying. Or do literally anything besides stand here watching his mouth.

Why am I noticing his mouth?

I don’t take my eyes off him as he drinks—because one should never take one’s eyes off the enemy.

When he sets the cup back down, I cannot help asking, “Well?”

It is not as though I put any effort into brewing it. It is not as if I care for his opinion. So I can only attribute the sudden edge in my voice to the Academy starting to get to me.

And it is only day one.

“Flavourless,” he announces. “The leaves are scorched. You have not strained the tea—hence the ‘herby stuff’ currently floating in my cup. The balance is bitter, the colour unfortunate, and were it not for the exceptional lemon cake and your pretty eyes, I might have been less kind in my feedback.”

Pretty?

He’s toying with me.

I snatch the cup back. “That concludes our tea ceremony.”

“Already?”