Page 72 of Bitten Shifter

My pulse pounds as I look between them, every nerve screaming.

“We don’t need your help,” Chatty snarls.

The Hunter stands between me and Chatty, menace radiating from his stance. “You will release her now.”

There’s a click as Chatty raises his rifle. “No one tells me what to do. I can kill you more easily than I can kill her.”

The Hunter does not flinch. His tone drips with dark amusement. “Try me. Go on. But I promise you will regret it.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chatty’s gripon the rifle shifts. He twists it as if wielding a club, and the stock slams into the Magic Hunter’s face with brutal efficiency—once, then twice. Horrified, I watch as blood sprays, and the Hunter crumples to the ground, unconscious, crimson streaming from his nose.

He didn’t see that coming. I hope he will be all right.

Chatty barks a harsh laugh. “What a fool. Finish the girl, and let’s get out of here.”

Silence. No one moves.

His confidence falters as Balaclava shifts uneasily, his knife hanging slack at his side. Shaking his head, he steps back. “No way, buddy. I’m out. I love my mum.”

“You can’t be out!” Chatty snaps, frustration spilling over. “Get back here and do your damn job!”

But Balaclava does not look back. He keeps walking, footsteps echoing in the cavernous warehouse. One by one, the others exchange uneasy glances and follow. Their loyalty—or perhaps their courage—vanishes as quickly as the Hunter hit the floor.

Two of them pause long enough to drag the groaning, bleeding man away.

Left alone, Chatty groans, exasperated. “If you want something done right…” He pulls a red Swiss Army Knife from his pocket, a small, almost harmless-looking tool that suddenly appears menacing in his hands.

He flicks open the blade, the sharp sound loud in the oppressive stillness, and strides towards me.

Before I can react, his boot connects with the chair, sending it skidding. The chains strain, and it topples over.

I fall backwards, slamming onto the cold, unforgiving concrete. Pain explodes across my spine and the back of my head. My vision blurs with starbursts, and part of me almost wishes I could lose consciousness.

But I can’t.

Chatty leans in, his breath hot and foul against my cheek as the knife’s cold edge presses to my throat. “I’m not going to kill you,” he whispers, voice low and venomous.

The blade skims along my skin, scraping the delicate flesh of my cheek. “If I had a few more minutes, I’d peel the nose right off your face. You wouldn’t be so pretty then.”

The knife lingers, threatening, before sliding lower.

“But I’ll do the next best thing.” The blade snags my clothes, plucking at the fabric as it traces a deliberate line down my chest, between my breasts, and halts at my stomach.

His eyes gleam with cruel anticipation.

If he had the time, I’m certain he’d do worse.

The blade pivots and he shifts his focus to my forearm, the tip of the blade gliding over soft skin. For a second, I brace for him to slash my wrist. Instead, with a swift, practised flick, he severs something far worse—the black sensory band circling my arm.

The moment it drops, the floodgates burst open. A groan escapes before I can stop it as every suppressed shifter sense crashes into me like a tidal wave. The world rushes in—overwhelming, unrelenting and deafening. Scents, sounds and vision, all sharpen and stab. My skull feels ready to split in two.

Instinctively, I try to lift my cuffed hands to shield my ears, desperate for relief.

His hand slams them back down onto the concrete with brutal force. “No,” he snarls, his voice booming in my shattered world, the single word reverberating like a megaphone in my ears.

From his pocket, he takes out a small, innocuous-looking pouch. He rustles it, the faint crackle of dried leaves setting my teeth on edge. “Wolfsbane,” he says with a cruel smile. “Poison to shifters.”

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