Page 8 of Bitten Shifter

If they are still interested, they will contact me.

I exit the car, smoothing down my trousers as I gather my things. Chin up, shoulders back, I walk toward the hotel entrance.

The automatic doors slide open, and I’m greeted by a blast of sickly warm air that follows me into the lobby.

The hotel is standard—clean, efficient, and utterly forgettable, just like every other chain hotel. The air is tinged with the faint scent of freshly brewed coffee from the restaurant in the corner, mingling unpleasantly with the sharp pine scent of the floor cleaner.

I nod hello to the receptionist and give him my booking confirmation number. Moments later, I’m holding a keycard and heading to the lift.

I scan the card, hit the button for the fourth floor, and lean back against the cold, brushed steel wall. There’s no mirror, but the black strip above the buttons reflects my face.

“Huh.”

I look exactly as I did when I left work this afternoon. Not a hair out of place, not a hint of the turmoil churning inside me. It’s impressive, really, how much of the pain I feel is invisible, etched nowhere but within.

The lift pings, and the doors slide open. I quickly find the room, and when the door clicks shut behind me, the dull, safe uniformity of four solid walls settles something inside me.

It feels as though I’ve finally stopped running.

I drop the shopping bags onto the suitcase holder next to the wardrobe, kick off my shoes, and strip out of my clothes.

The shower beckons.

Hot water pounds against my shoulders, runs down my face, and pools at my feet. I scrub at my skin until it’s bright pink, hoping to wash away the smell, the betrayal, the day.

But no matter how hard I scrub, it’s still there.

I’m surprised I don’t cry now that I’m safe and alone. I thought I would. I thought tears would come rushing out of me like a dam breaking, but instead, there’s… nothing.

The numbness settles over me like a second skin, wrapping me in an emotional lockdown I can’t break through. Somewhere in my mind, a little voice screams,What the heck is wrong with you? Why aren’t you more upset?

I just feel hollow.

Chapter Three

Two days later,I receive a response from human resources. The email is short and to the point: a courier will deliver the contract to the hotel lobby at ten o’clock.

Shifters are old-fashioned about certain things; they don’t trust electronic systems with top-level security documentation. Everything important is hand-delivered, with no exceptions.

When it’s time to leave my room, I hesitate.

My hand lingers on the handle, muscles locked in a silent standoff with my confidence. It takes a monumental effort—mentally muttering and persuading myself—before I force the door open, step out, and join real life.

By the time I reach the tail end of breakfast, I’ve already lost most of my appetite.

The industrial toast maker is my first challenge. After a half-hearted battle—during which I seriously consider hitting the damn thing with my shoe—I settle for two slices, one burnt to a crisp and the other basically warm bread.

I smear them with strawberry jam, stuff the oddly textured slices into my mouth, and wash them down with two cups of bitter coffee. It does not help much.

At least I’ve killed some time.

With ten minutes left before the courier is due to arrive, I drift into the small lounge area and sink into a sofa facing the main doors. I set my laptop beside me and cross my arms, trying not to feel like a weirdo sitting here without a phone.

To my left, a wide column stretches to the ceiling, decorated with a tall fake palm in a pot that’s seen better days. To my right, three vending machines hum mechanically, adding to the low murmur of conversation and the occasional clatter of a suitcase being dragged across the tiled floor.

I should have brought my phone.

But no—it’s turned off, buried at the bottom of one of the plastic bags I shoved into the wardrobe. The past few days have been technical torture, with the nasty little voice in my head urging me to pick up the phone to check the missed and blocked calls.

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