Page 17 of Bitten Shifter

“Documents?” he drones.

The driver hands over a stack of papers. The guard looks at everyone in the car and scowls when he sees me.

The human.

Then he waves us on, directing us to parking bay number three.

We pull into the assigned spot, and the driver kills the engine. Turning to me, he says, “Mrs Emerson, a member of border personnel will need to speak with you to confirm everything’s in order. You must answer their questions truthfully, and we will be on our way in no time.” He notices my apprehension and softens his tone. “It’s fine; the Ministry has all your pre-approved documents.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

Gosh, this is awful. What the heck am I doing?

Chapter Six

It does not take longbefore the guard—now wearing a bright yellow jacket—steps out of the booth and meets an official-looking woman, a shifter, in a matching hi-vis vest. They exchange a few words, then both head for the car.

The border guard opens my door and steps aside as the woman speaks. “Mrs Emerson, would you please come with me for processing?”

I force a polite smile. “Yes, of course.”

As I go to leave my computer behind, she adds, “Please bring all your technology.”

Oh no. That doesn’t sound good.“Okay.” I grab the laptop bag, relieved I’ve pocketed my phone so I don’t have to rummage through my plastic bags in the car’s boot.

I’ve never been in trouble with the law, nor have I spoken to anyone in authority, so this entire situation is way out of my comfort zone. It’s intimidating—not because of the border’s size or its buildings, but because of what it represents. This is where people like me are pulled apart and inspected; every word, every document, every answer is weighed and judged.

Swallowing hard, I climb out of the car and shuffle behind her, my oversized blond bodyguard trailing behind like a silent shadow.

The border official strides confidently, her dark hair swinging in a high ponytail that bobs with each step. The sharp click of her heels on the pavement draws attention to her long, toned calves. I can’t help envying her effortless grace. Heels hurt my feet—they get squished and sore—so I stick to flat shoes. I glance down at my trainers and wiggle my toes, grateful for their cheap but blissfully comfortable support.

She leads us to a building off to the side. It’s basic and functional—a single-storey structure of the same grey concrete, with no decoration or sign of wear. The pavement leading to it is worn but clean, with weeds sprouting at the edges.

A single entrance looms ahead a heavy metal door with a plain sign readingmain offices.

The guard stops at the door, nods curtly, and hurries back to his booth.

Inside, the building is as stark as the outside. Pale off-white walls, a thin grey carpet worn smooth in places but spotless, and fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. A receptionist sits behind a long counter, her gaze fixed on her monitor. She doesn’t look up as we pass.

We round a corner with a digital display flashing red numbers corresponding to tickets clutched by fidgety people in stiff yellow-and-grey plastic chairs. We bypass them entirely and head straight to what must be the border official’s office.

She shrugs off her yellow vest, hangs it neatly on a peg, and gestures at a chair. “Please, take a seat.”

I do as instructed, perching on the edge of the chair she indicates. She moves with practised elegance, smoothing her skirt as she sits, pulling in her chair, and stacking the documentson her desk. She picks them up and flips through them with sharp efficiency.

“Let’s have a look, shall we?”

I don’t reply—it wasn’t really a question.

A silence stretches on as she clicks her tongue every so often while flipping through the pages.

I tuck my hands under my thighs to keep them still. Without my wedding and eternity rings to fiddle with, I keep catching myself twisting at nothing—an invisible band of absence around my finger. Maybe I should buy a few cheap silver rings?

At last, the border official looks up, her eyes shrewd but not hostile. “Everything seems to be in order.” She pushes back from the desk, swivels to her computer, and begins typing with quick precision. Each keystroke echoes like part of a private rhythm. “Your documents and passes should arrive shortly.”

Leaning back in her chair, she folds her hands in her lap and smiles—a pleasant but meaningless expression, the kind perfected in customer service.

I give her a polite smile in return.

---