Page 16 of Bitten Shifter

Those pale blue eyes meet mine again, assessing me. At last, the corners of his mouth lift in the faintest smile.

“Okay, Lark.”

“And you are?” The words spill out before I can stop them. I can’t keep calling himMr First Classin my head—it’s bound to slip out at the worst moment.

“Merrick.” The name drops from his mouth like it’s being pried out with a crowbar.

Merrick.Huh. “It’s nice to meet you, Merrick.”

He huffs, takes my plastic bags, and hands them off to another shifter, who stows them in the car’s boot. I’m glad I hid my dirty underwear at the bottom.

Clutching my laptop bag like a lifeline, I nod and manoeuvre into the backseat. The big blond bodyguard takes the front passenger seat, while another shifter slides into the driver’s position.

I glance around at the suited, silent men surrounding me and the car, wondering where the heck they were when the mages were tearing up the hotel lobby. Nothing like a group of suited and booted shifters to scare you straight.

I look back at Merrick, expecting him to join us, but he does not move. Instead, he stands there on the kerb, his expression unreadable, as if he is holding the weight of the world on his broad shoulders.

“Good luck, Mrs Emerson,” he says, his voice steady and low.

I clear my throat and give him a playful glare.

“Lark,” he corrects himself with a small, almost reluctant smile.

Then, in one sharp motion, he slams the car door and steps back.

I stare out the window at Merrick’s retreating figure. He doesn’t offer a wave; he simply lifts his phone to his ear and marches off with that no-nonsense stride. And just like that, he is gone.

Why does that hurt? I don’t even know him.

I will have to unpack that later—this sudden clinginess towards a stranger.

Since the ‘incident,’ I’ve tried to self-medicate and fix my broken heart with chocolate and sugar, hoping to kick-start some dopamine and happy hormones into my bloodstream. Nothing has prepared me for this confusing blend of excitement and danger in his presence.

I’m forty-seven years old. My idea of danger is faulty wiring at work, and I’ve gone out of my way to avoid anything that makes my heart skip a beat. Yet for a moment—just one—I forgot about the shitshow of my life.

I snap my seat belt into place as the car pulls away. The two men in the front carry on their quiet conversation, ignoring me completely. My Fiat sits abandoned in the hotel car park as we merge onto the motorway. I try not to look back at that piece of my old life, disappearing in the rearview mirror.

The border looms ahead.

It’s difficult to describe the magic-infused monstrosity of concrete. The wall’s surface is smooth and unbroken, making me feel like an ant. It stretches to the left and right as far as I can see, rising so high it vanishes into the grey haze above, blocking the sunlight and casting everything in shadow.

We keep driving, the motorway curving to the right. Twenty minutes later, we take an exit ramp, where a massive sign looms overhead:

Warning: you are approaching shifter territory. Turn back if unauthorised.

Below it, smaller signs add:prepare documents for inspection. Strictly no entry without prior approval.

I frown and glance at the paperwork sticking out of my bag. I’ve got my job contract, but I don’t have any official-looking forms—no visas, permits, or whatever else might be required to cross into shifter territory. Surely Merrick would’ve made sure these guys have everything in order?

Still, the uncertainty nags me. I’m not the kind of person who likes to wing it. I prefer knowing what is coming and being prepared for every possible scenario. Right now, I feel as unprepared as I’ve ever been, and the looming wall ahead does not help.

I tap my fingers, trying to settle the anxiety buzzing in my chest. Five minutes. That’s all I would’ve needed to get my head straight. But no one asked, and here I am, hurtling toward the unknown with no time to catch my breath.

Ahead, a series of booths are set up like drive-thru windows—without the yummy burger at the end—each made of dull concrete and metal. A few cars are lined up in front of them. We inch forward, join the queue, wait for about five minutes, and then it’s our turn.

The guard’s window is small, barely large enough for the interaction. Because of the border’s towering shadow, overheadlights cast a harsh white glare on everything. Behind the booths are rows of parking bays marked by faded yellow lines. Each bay has a number painted on the ground, and more signs direct drivers where to park and wait for further instructions.

A guard leans out of the window, hardly glancing at our driver. His eyes are dull and bored—just another car, another person he will forget in seconds.

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