Page 42 of Bitten Shifter

The following day,my phone buzzes with instructions to be ready by 8 a.m. I’m outside, waiting, when a car pulls up. Merrick, apparently, couldn’t be bothered to collect me himself.

Silly me for being disappointed.

I don’t know where he stands in all this. Was he part of security that night, there to protect us? Or is he something else entirely?

I guess I will find out soon enough.

The blond shifter bodyguard is back, as smug as ever. His nostrils flare as he takes in my scent, and recognition flickers across his face almost instantly. Amusement dances in his green eyes as they land on my sunglasses and headphones, and his smirk widens like he has stumbled onto a private joke.

Under his breath, he mutters, “This will be good. He’s gonna shit a brick.”

Oh, great. Glad I can be entertaining.

He swings the back door open with a cocky smirk, and I slide inside, glaring at him.Yeah, laugh it up, buddy. Laugh it up.The urge to smack him in the back of the head is almost overwhelming, but I manage to refrain.Be nice, Lark.

Since I first woke up, my temper and hormones have been all over the place—like being thirteen again, but with added strength. I need to do something about it. Maybe hit the gym, punch a bag, or spar with someone. Right now, I feel like a live wire, crackling with uncontrollable energy, and the thing inside me keeps clawing to break free.

We don’t stop at the Ministry’s technological centre. Instead, the car drives past my usual stomping grounds, heading deeper into Zone Two’s almost vehicle-free streets and unfamiliar territory. The road opens onto a broad square surrounded by historic buildings—tall, dark-stone structures with carved detailing from the early 1800s.

We pull up in front of one of these buildings, and a doorman in an immaculate uniform rushes forward to open my door.

“Good luck,” Blondie says, grinning.

“Thanks for the lift,” I reply, deliberately ignoring him as I step onto the pavement.

Polished stone steps lead to heavy wooden doors with intricate, weathered ironwork. The doorman darts ahead as I approach, pushing open the right door with a creak.

“This way, Mrs Emerson, this way,” he says, gesturing grandly.

“Thank you.”

I remove my sunglasses as I step inside. The dimly lit interior has polished stone floors and dark wood panelling on the walls. Through the layer of vanilla lip balm, I catch the faint smell of old books and leather.

A shifter woman waits nearby, her hair swept into a messy bun. She beckons me to follow, remaining silent as her heels click against the stone floor. At the far end of a long, shadowy corridor, we stop in front of an imposing oak door. She knocks once.

“Come in,” a muffled voice calls.

She opens the door but does not step inside.

“Thank you,” I say.

She nods, giving me a brief, almost apologetic smile before hurrying away. Her footsteps echo along the corridor like the hounds of hell are nipping at her heels.

I take a deep breath, gather my courage, and walk through the door.

It’s a grand office with a high ceiling. To my left sits an old-fashioned fireplace, and the remaining walls are lined with shelves brimming with books and ancient magical artefacts that stretch from floor to ceiling.

At the centre of the room stands a huge desk carved from dark, glossy wood. Its edges are adorned with subtle claw-like designs. Papers lie in neat piles on its surface, and a fancy pen rests perfectly parallel to the edge.

I finally focus on the man behind the desk.

His fingers dig into the surface, as though he is forcing himself not to jump up and . . . grab me? Shake me? Hug me? The last one is probably wishful thinking, but I certainly wouldn’t say no to a hug.

Merrick rises from his seat, looking effortlessly handsome in a black suit and an icy blue tie that matches his piercing eyes. His expression is locked down tight—unreadable.

I wish I could master that kind of game face. Mine usually betrays every thought and flicker of emotion. It’s gotten me into more trouble than I care to admit. Maybe this new face of mine will be different?

“Hi, Merrick, it’s nice to see you,” I say, flinging my hand in an awkward wave.

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