Page 10 of Bitten Shifter

If anything, they highlight the hard lines of his jaw, high cheekbones, and the seriousness etched into his expression as he scans the lobby.

Only then, with the angle of his face, do I notice the faint, otherworldly glow of his eyes as they catch the light.

He is a shifter.

I’ve never understood why shifter’s eyes glow like that. They call it ‘beast shine,’ which is both apt and rude. It’s as if someone switched on their high beams. I’ve always wondered if they can turn it off—glowing eyes don’t exactly scream stealth. Maybe it’s different when they are in animal form.

It’s been years since I last saw a shifter in person—not since childhood. Conference calls don’t count. Most hotel guests seem unfazed, except for a pair of girls nearby who stop dead, their mouths hanging open as they gawk at him like he has walked off the cover of a billionaire romance novel. Maybe it’s because we’re near the sector border and shifters are less of a novelty here. Or perhaps he simply has that effect on people.

I shake my head, forcing my gaze away. None of this is my business. He’s not breaking any rules, and the Human Sector does not mind the occasional shifter passing through—as long as they stay in human form.

Only the Shifter Ministry enforces the really restrictive laws.

Despite myself, I steal another glance at the man. Yeah, he is breathtakingly handsome—ridiculously so. His features are sharp and symmetrical, a perfection that does not seem real, like something out of Greek mythology. His strong nose and firm, unsmiling mouth give him a severity that demands attention. He’s the sort of man you can’t help but notice, whether you want to or not.

Stop it, Lark.

I huff, suppressing an absurd, creeping guilt of a married woman who’s just cheated on her husband in thought. There’s no reason to feel bad—I know that. It’s not like I’m doing anything wrong. But when was the last time I looked at a man like this?

No,ogleda man.

Not that I’d touch this younger, handsome shifter with a ten-foot barge pole. Honestly, I’d be impressed if I ever went near another man again, given the state of my love life.

For a fleeting second, I imagine what being with someone like him would even look like. A tiny, cartoonish version of him appears in my head, all polished charm and perfect teeth. He winks and grins at me.“Hey, baby.”

I snort at the absurdity of it. Almost immediately, I picture a horde of gorgeous women stampeding over me to get to him, as if I don’t even exist. With a mental flick, I send the little figment flying out of my head.

Straight into the male danger zone.

I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life. A pretty, unattainable man in a beautiful suit isn’t one of them. You would need raging, uncontrollable hormones to even think about touching that one.

Not that the gorgeous shifter would give me a second glance. I look down at my sleeves, adjusting them unnecessarily. I’m not ugly—objectively, I’m attractive. But let’s be real it’s been years since I dressed for anything resembling seduction.

I wouldn’t even know where to start.

I like my clothes comfortable, and my so-called beauty routine involves a quick slap of sunscreen, a dab of moisturiser, and battling the occasional rogue chin hair. If I’m honest, more than the occasional. Let’s say I’ve become quite adept with wax strips.

I can’t help it—I give him one last surreptitious look-over and to my absolute horror, the hottie shifter finishes scanning the lobby and… stalks towards me.

Well, isn’t this interesting?

I shake my head in disbelief. Isthisguy seriously the courier?Really?Because of course a Ministry courier would look like James Bond.

Is this my life now?

I wouldn’t be in this situation if the Paul-and-Dove disaster hadn’t happened. Meeting shifters and working with them will be part of my snazzy new government job—if I get it. I’d better get used to this sort of thing fast.

As he closes the distance between us, an odd, instinctive urge sweeps over me to hunch forward and protect my middle. It’s primal and annoying, as though he is projecting alpha vibes at me from twenty feet away.

Nope. Not happening.

Feeling a tad reckless, I drop my arms, press my spine into the sofa, and lift my chin. I’m forty-seven years old. I’ve survived worse than one intimidating shifter.

I make direct eye contact and hold it.

His eyes—icy blue with a dark navy ring, sharp and arresting, reminiscent of a husky’s—widen slightly. Blink, and I’d have missed it. A single sweep of his long lashes erases his surprise, leaving behind a cool, impassive stare.

I don’t drop my gaze. His alpha vibes can get lost.

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