Page 20 of Bitten Shifter

Ornate eighteenth-century buildings blend seamlessly with sleek, modern designs, all surrounded by a sea of green. Trees line the streets, their canopies casting cool, dappled shade across broad, immaculate pedestrian walkways. Shrubs in bloom and thoughtfully placed benches dot the area.

Winding paths thread through wildflower meadows, linking hidden picnic spots and peaceful seating nooks.

The entire place feels like a vast, living park.

Cyclists whizz past along dedicated lanes, their bright helmets just a blur. A fleeting thought interrupts my admiration;I can’t remember the last time I rode a bike.This idyllic setting, under a bright blue sky, might feel less enchanting when the inevitable rain arrives, so I will definitely need a decent waterproof coat.

I scan the area for shifted animals but see none. Perhaps there are designated spaces for that. It makes sense if control is an issue. I feel a twinge of guilt for my earlier assumptions. The shifters seem far more organised than I expected—better even than the vampires, which is saying something.

“You’re living in Zone Two,” the driver says, breaking my reverie. His voice is calm, yet there’s unmistakable pride beneath it. “It’s the most secure area. The Ministry’s technological centre is coming up on the right.”

He gestures to a massive oval glass structure with sleek, modern lines and dark reflective panels. It looks like it belongs on the cover of an architecture magazine. I swallow hard.Shit. I’m entirely out of my depth.That’s where I will be working? Me, in a place like that? It makes my old office look like a leaky garden shed.

We pass more buildings, including what the driver points out as the shopping centre. “They also handle online deliveries,” he adds as he signals and slows down.

Ahead, nestled behind a copse of trees, stands the Ironworks.

It’s even more extravagant in person than in the brochure. Golden-hued bricks shimmer in the sunlight, offset by grand windows that mirror the surrounding greenery.

The car comes to a stop beside a gravel path. My door opens, and before I fully register it, the blond bodyguard hands me my bags and a set of keys. Now that he is free of me, his grin is cheerful, almost smug.

“Good luck,” he says, his tone dripping with amusement, making me feel like I’ve stepped intoThe Hunger Games.

Wonderful. I force a polite smile. “Thank you both for your help.”

The driver nods. The door slams shut, and the car pulls away, leaving me alone on the path.

I turn to face my new home, my heart thumping with nerves and anticipation. The Ironworks towers before me, more luxurious than I’d ever imagined.

This is it—the start of my new life.

Adjusting my grip on the plastic bags, I take my first step toward the building.

In my cheap outfit, I feel awkwardly out of place—underdressed and entirely out of my depth.

The chequered flooring in the entrance lobby immediately draws my eye—probably original, its elegant design lending an old-world charm to the space. There’s a grand, formal atmosphere here, more reminiscent of an old bank than an industrial building.

The ceiling is breathtaking. A dark-blue masterpiece with intricate detailing, crowned by a massive chandelier that looks like it belongs in a stately home. Plush sofas are scattered around, each paired with a small side table.

“Mrs Emerson, welcome to the Greenholm Ironworks.”

I let out a startled squeak as a suited shifter appears beside me, flashing a friendly smile. My heart pounds; I clutch the plastic bags a little tighter, resisting the impulse to smack him with one. “Thank you,” I manage to say.

The man is shorter than I expected for a shifter—probably just under six feet tall—with short, dark hair and a boyish face that does not quite match his tailored suit. Yet his presence is confident, even authoritative. “You’re on our executive third floor, apartment three-zero-seven. It’s a fully furnished one-bedroom with a wraparound glass balcony overlooking the river. The Enterprise Zone rule book has been placed in your living room for your convenience and safety. Please take time to familiarise yourself with it.”

A rule book. Fantastic.

“Do you need help with your bags?” His gaze flicks to the flimsy plastic in my hands, and the corners of his mouth twitch as though he is stifling a laugh.

I offer a half-smile and shrug, lifting the bags slightly. “I’m fine, thanks.”

He frowns momentarily, as though I’ve broken some unspoken code, then recovers with a brisk nod. “We don’t have a curfew, but we strongly advise humans against staying out after dusk.”

“I understand.” Not so different from the Human Sector, I suppose.

“We have vampire residents, and though hunting is strictly prohibited, accidents can happen. Rest assured, incidents are dealt with swiftly and carry severe penalties for the vampires involved. Still, a night-time stroll could be misconstrued as… an invitation.” He gives me a knowing look. “To mitigate risk, we offer a complimentary human escort service for travelling after dark.”

A human escort service? Like dog-walking for people? “Okay,” I say, trying not to laugh. “Thank you.”

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