Page 110 of Bitten Shifter

I take the card, studying it longer than necessary—not to confirm her identity but to absorb her name. Significant. Important.

My mate.

Lark.

Lark Emerson.

Lark Winters,my wolf growls.

I flick the card back to her, the gesture casual.

“Okay, well, thank you,” she says, accepting both the ID and the envelope of documents. She balances the hefty package on her knees. “Thank you for coming and dropping this off.” Her wave towards the exit is almost dismissive, as though to usher me away. My beast rumbles, amused.

There is so much fire in her, hidden beneath nerves and exhaustion.

“No, Mrs Emerson. I must wait for you to review the documents and, if necessary, sign them.”

Her brows shoot up. “I thought it was just paperwork for me to look over.” She frowns at the envelope. “That’s… unconventional.”

“It might take some time,” she warns, glancing at me uncertainly. “Would you like to take a seat?”

“No, I’m fine.” I clasp my hands behind my back, forcing a parade-rest posture. The effort not to close the distance—to comfort her—burns through me.

Her gaze flicks around, unsure what to make of me.

Good. Let her wonder.

She examines the wax seal, humming softly. My wolf stirs, unsettled and intrigued. She is so unaware of the world she is entering, yet her scent reveals a hidden strength.

And she ismine.

I bite back the possessive growl clawing at my throat. Not here. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Her fingers brush the enchanted parchment as she draws out the documents. The spell embedded within them activates, its faint magical aura rippling through my senses.

She flinches, shaking the paper as though it burned her. “Ouch! Stop that,” she mutters.

A hint of a smile tugs at my lips. She is entirely endearing, utterly adorable. But I can’t have her think I’m laughing at her expense. Schooling my features into a neutral mask, I let my gaze drift toward the glass doors, feigning disinterest.

Chapter Fifty

Bonus Scene 2 - The Meeting

Merrick’s point of view

The airin the room grows heavy as I step inside. Paul, in the middle of a tantrum, freezes at the sight of me. His narrow shoulders square, a futile attempt at appearing intimidating. He is already lost, and he knows it.

He looks like hell.

Dove—the sister—straightens abruptly, her talon-like grip on Paul’s arm vanishing as though I’ve caught her in the act. Her gaze snaps to me, pupils dilating as she sizes me up. She flicks out her tongue to wet her lips, tossing her hair over one shoulder in a practised move meant to be alluring.

Then comes the laugh—a high-pitched, grating sound drenched in insincerity. It’s the kind of laugh meant to bait, to spark interest in a mate. But it misses its mark entirely and only sets my teeth on edge.

Her scent shifts, a cloying mixture of nerves and misdirected bravado. I resist the urge to wrinkle my nose. It’s not just unappealing; it’s the stench of desperation.

Pathetic.

I keep my expression impassive. The last thing I want is to encourage her—or hurt Lark.

---