Page 15 of Bitten Shifter

With a resigned sigh, I sling my bag over my shoulder and hustle toward the stairs, avoiding the smoking wreck of the lift. I guess this is it—my new life, my new adventure.

Ready or not, it’s starting now.

Chapter Five

It takes lessthan five minutes to clear out my hotel room, motivated, of course, by the newly appointed blond bodyguard who is shadowing my every move. The shifter waits stoically outside my door as I pack, and now he follows me like a silent sentry.

I frown at his looming presence. He is massive, as though carved from granite and then dressed in an expensive suit. His broad shoulders practically fill the doorway, and his blond hair is cropped short, giving him a sharp, no-nonsense look. His green eyes sweep the room with the precision of someone who’s used to keeping others safe—or taking them down.

All of this feels… excessive.

Sure, this is a government job, but I’m not exactly a rock star in my field. I’m competent, yes, but I’ve gone out of my way not to stand out. Maybe this is some over-the-top shifter security protocol. Or perhaps they are not protecting me at all—maybe they are making sure I’m not a spy or a troublemaker.

Fine by me, as long as they don’t hurt me. I just need to get through the sector border, and then they will no longer be my problem. I can slip into obscurity among all the other humans working for the Ministry.

The blond guard escorts me outside. Mr First Class is on the phone, pacing as though he owns the pavement. He has not noticed me yet, so I hesitate. I’m not sure what the protocol is when he is on the phone and a half-dozen shifter guards are scattered around. Do I walk up? Wait for instructions? Risk being tackled to the ground if I make a sudden move?

I decide to stand still and stare at the horizon. There’s a curious comfort in watching the world stretch endlessly, unmoved by my personal drama.

If there’s one thing I do know, it’s that I’m done playing the mousy wife. Surrounded by these shifters—literal predators—I need to find that fire buried deep inside.

Mr First Class tucks his phone into his jacket, his sharp blue eyes snapping to me. He takes in my plastic bags and then scans behind me. “Is that everything?” he asks, his tone laced with disbelief.

The man is observant—tooobservant. His eyes flick briefly to my bare ring finger, the pale band of skin betraying what used to be there. I lift the bags higher, a pathetic shield against his penetrating stare. “Yep, this is everything. I will get more once I’m settled.”

As soon as I say it, a knot of worry twists in my stomach. Do they even have shops in the Enterprise Zone? The shifters are so secretive—who knows?

He grunts, apparently unimpressed, and waves a hand. A sleek, dark grey car pulls up to the kerb as if conjured by his command. Without a word, he strides to the back door, opens it, and gestures for me to get inside.

I blink at him. “Oh, no, thank you. I’ve got my car. I will follow you.” I nod towards my Fiat 500 parked a few spaces away. I can drive myself and would rather not get into a car with a group of strangers.

His lips press into a hard line. “That won’t be necessary. You will need a border escort, and your car isn’t registered.”

My jaw drops. “Not registered? What do you think I am—a delinquent? Of course it’s registered,” I sputter, indignant.

His eyes narrow. “Not with us. Your car is only registered for use within the other sectors. Mrs Emerson, you will be living and working in our Enterprise Zone. We have rules, and private vehicles are prohibited for the general public.”

I mentally groan, but I force a polite nod. “Of course. I’m sorry—I didn’t realise.”

Behind him, the big blond bodyguard sneers, as if my car offence is the most hilarious thing he’s heard all day.

A flush of embarrassment creeps up my neck. I can’t help but second-guess every decision that brought me here. Signing those documents felt like the right move, but now I’m standing here, stripped of basic freedoms, wondering if I’ve made a colossal mistake.

What was I thinking? I don’t know the rules, I don’t know these people—and I definitely don’t know whatthe heck I’m doing.

But then I remember why I’m here—to get out of the Human Sector and start over.

Mr First Class extends his hand, palm up, an unmistakable demand. “Your keys.”

I clutch my bags tighter. “What are you going to do with my car?”

“It will be safely stored until you return to this side of the border. Don’t worry,” he says, in a calm, soothing tone, as though talking to a rather testy toddler. His hand remains outstretched. “Everything you need will be within walking distance, and deliveries will bring your shopping straight to your door. You won’t miss it.”

I sigh, letting the tension escape in a long exhale, and switch my plastic bags to my other hand, the rustle of plastic loud against the tense silence. “Okay, thank you.” I dig out my keys, staring at them for a moment before reluctantly handing them over.Please don’t let this be a mistake.

His lips twitch, barely hiding a smile. Then, with the same smooth gesture, he waves me toward the waiting car. “Thank you, Mrs Emerson. Please, get in.”

Each time he calls meMrs Emerson, I feel a tiny piece of my soul wither. I awkwardly adjust the straps of my bag. “If we’re going to be spending time in each other’s company, could you maybe… call me Lark?” I try to keep my tone neutral, but there’s a thread of desperation I can’t quite mask.

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