Page 18 of Bitten Shifter

Then we wait.

Five awkward minutes tick by before a knock breaks the silence. Another woman enters, dressed practically in trousers and sensible shoes. She’s human, carrying a folder of documents. Offering a polite smile, she hands them to the border official.

“Thank you. That’ll be all,” the official says.

The newcomer nods and slips out, shutting the door behind her.

The border official extracts a shiny blue metal card from the folder and sets it on the desk with a click. “Here we are. This is your new identification.” With two fingers, she slides it across the table.

I glance down. My name and photo stare back at me—an unflattering but familiar shot from my national ID. Below that is an address I recognise from the apartment brochure. The Greenholm Ironworks.

“And this is for your new bank account.” She places a sleek black metal bank card next to the ID, then an envelope. “Your account details are inside. A small deposit has been made for your initial expenses.”

I blink at the card. I bet it’s heavier than it looks. Fancy. My old debit card was flimsy plastic—this one looks capable of doubling as a weapon.

She flips through more papers, then meets my gaze. “Now, your electronics, please.”

“My… electronics?” My voice rises despite myself.

She wiggles her perfectly manicured nails expectantly. “Yes, your phone. For privacy and security reasons, unapproved technology isn’t permitted.”

Oh. That’s… concerning.

With a sinking feeling, I dig my phone out of my pocket, hesitating. What is it with shifters today wanting all my stuff? It does not matter. It’s just a phone. I’ve already backed up my data. But handing it over still feels like a strange betrayal. Her outstretched hand leaves no room for argument.

I turn the phone off, gripping it one last time, then reluctantly place it in her hand. She examines it like it might explode, then tosses it into a bin behind her.

Gone.

Surprisingly, I feel relieved. I didn’t expect it, but it’s almost freeing. It’s as if I’ve shed another weight tethering me to the past. I inhale deeply—the first truly unencumbered breath I’ve taken in days.

Letting go feels good.

“Now, your laptop,” the border official says briskly, as if requesting my laptop is perfectly normal.

And that’s where I draw the line. I clutch the bag’s strap, my fingers gripping tight. “Absolutely not,” I say, more sharply than intended. My cheeks heat, but I straighten my back. “I need my computer for work.”

Her eyes narrow, and for a tense moment we stare at each other.

Eventually, she sighs and flips through the papers once more. “It really shouldn’t be allowed. It’s policy. You VIP guests take such liberties.” She mutters the last part under her breath, then turns to her computer. Her fingers flit across the keyboard. “Let’s see… Hmm. It appears you have been granted permission. However, your home internet will be disabled for security reasons. You will only have access to your monitored work system.”

Her saccharine smile fails to hide the edge in her voice. “We take security very seriously, Mrs Emerson.”

“Of course,” I mutter, loosening my grip on the laptop strap.

I pocket the two heavy cards and slip the documents into my bag, nodding once.

She opens her bottom drawer and pulls out a small black clamshell phone—something straight out of the early 2000s. Sliding it across the desk, she says, “This will be your phone while you are here. It’s preprogrammed for essential calls and texts only.”

I fight back a grimace. So much for accessing the internet. “Thank you.” I drop it into my bag without a second glance.

“Remember,” she says, her voice cold and final, “no mistakes, no breaches.”

I take that as my cue to leave. “Thank you for your time.”

The big blond bodyguard holds the door for me. As I step out, I glance back at him, unable to hide my curiosity. “What did she mean by VIP?”

He gives me a blank look.

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