Page 45 of Bitten Shifter

“Seriously? Now you are making jokes?”

He meets my gaze, all amusement gone. “I’m not joking, Lark. Don’t let a vampire bite you.”

I groan, frustration boiling over. “Okay, but seriously. Does this mean I’m… a shifter?”

“Yes,” he replies. “It means you will be able to change shape.”

“What? When?” My voice rises in panic. “Do I have to wait for the full moon?”

He exhales, shoulders tensing. I can almost see him dying a little inside at my flippant comment.

“The moon is irrelevant,” he says, his voice clipped. “Your transformation will take time. You will have to adapt. And, frankly, no one’s done this at your age.”

Ouch.

“Wow, thanks,” I grumble.

He continues, ignoring my sarcasm. “The transformation will wreak havoc on your physiology. You will get easily exhausted, or you might get angry.”

Leaning forward, he presses his hand against the desk, his gaze fierce.

“On behalf of the Ministry, I extend our sincerest apologies. What happened to you is inexcusable, and you will be compensated and cared for.” His voice resonates with quiet seriousness that makes my chest tighten.

Well, so much for the Shifter Ministry not knowing about my furry problems. I grind my teeth, wondering how much pressure it would take to crack one—and whether it would grow back. Shifters and their healing biology…

“But I don’t think you fully understand your situation, Lark. Your contract with the sector has been revoked because you are no longer human. You are now under the jurisdiction of the Shifter Ministry, which means human laws no longer apply to you. The rules you lived by? They no longer exist.”

I open my mouth to protest, but he silences me with a curt gesture.

“For everyone’s safety,” he says. His tone isn’t cold; it brims with fierce compassion, clashing with my instinct to argue.

He places a glossy brochure on the desk and nudges it over.

“This explains everything. If it were me, I’d read it thoroughly. But you are an adult, and I’m not here to tell you what to do.”

What? I can’t believe shifters have a how-to brochure.

“You need to learn control,” he continues, his tone gentler. He opens a drawer and lifts out a sleek black band, placing it in front of me. “This will help.”

I lean forward, pick it up, and rub my thumb over its smooth surface. Magic thrums quietly within.

“What does it do? Am I supposed to chant a spell or something?”

He shakes his head. “No spells needed. It activates automatically once you wear it.”

I narrow my eyes. “And besides ‘helping,’ what does it actually do?”

Merrick drums his fingers on the desk, as though weighing how much to reveal. Eventually, he says, “It will track you—for medical reasons—and suppress your heightened senses and will stop most uncontrolled shifts. The first shift is risky. We don’t want you hurting yourself or anyone else if you lose control. This ensures you won’t shift alone, without medical oversight.”

A tracker.

With everything I’ve been through—every smell, sound, and sensation tearing me apart—I will take whatever help I can get. I slide the band onto my wrist. It fits snugly.

“Take off your headphones,” Merrick says.

My hands tremble as I remove them. Sound washes over me, yet I don’t feel overwhelmed or bombarded. My vision seems softer too. I let out a shaky breath.

He hands me a tissue, and I roll my eyes but accept it anyway. “Thanks,” I mutter, wiping away the protective vanilla lip balm from under my nose.

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