Page 9 of Bitten Shifter

I feel like an addict going cold turkey. It’s not drugs, magic, or blood. It’s a relationship.

Every memory has Paul at its centre, and that frightens me. Who am I without him? Our relationship didn’t set the world on fire, but I thought we fit. I’ve spent so many years shrinking myself, compromising for the sake of ‘us.’ Maybe I compromised too much.

I made us work.

It’s hard to let that go, harder still to shake the overwhelming sense of failure. I failed to see what was happening. I failed to protect myself.

When did he change? When did he decide I wasn’t enough?

And how could Dove do this to me?

The questions loop endlessly in my head, making me feel sick. If there were a pill to forget, I’d take it in a heartbeat.

Maybe it wasn’t just him. Perhaps it was the monotony of life—a day-in, day-out cycle of being a good worker and a good wife. Get up, make breakfast, go to work, come home, cookdinner, and spend quiet evenings together. It’s what I thought he wanted. It’s what I thought we both wanted.

Now, I hate the person I became.

I used to be a rebel who swore she’d never bow to anyone. My younger self would be appalled at this version of me. And yet here I am, looking back and wondering when I stopped fighting.

I grew up in a world where girls were told to be seen and not heard, where smiling through harassment was expected, and where a woman’s right to her body was never her own.

I learned to be polite, to say thank you, to please everyone but myself.

To never rock the boat.

Even now, I admire women who speak their minds without fear. But that’s not who I am. I’m always frightened of saying the wrong thing. I don’t want to come across as mean or cruel.

I don’t want to be alone.

I still want someone to love me, to be my person—someone who stands in the front row of my life, cheering me on, celebrating my triumphs, and catching me when I fall. I’ve spent so long cheering for others, but no one ever cheers for me.

Paul was never that person, was he?

I want to be angry and hate him, but he is not a monster, and he could have been worse. Even though he betrayed me, I still see the kind, funny man I married. I can’t regret the twenty-eight years we shared, even if they led here. But I can never go back.

I’m not ready to call in a solicitor. I want to bury my head in the sand for a little while longer and let Paul suffer.

If I can sort out this new life first, build something stable before dealing with the wreckage of the old one, that would be perfect. It’s not like the problem’s going anywhere, but I will face it when I’m stronger—on my terms.

The only way forward is through, and I will get there.

Slowly, piece by piece, I will rebuild myself. I will start by being kinder to me. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that my cheerleader, my person, and my witness to this life isme—not anyone else.

I still can hardly believe I might be working on the other side of the border.

The shifters are a world unto themselves. Their leader, the Alpha Prime—what a name—rules his shifters with a grip tighter than steel. One wrong move, one significant mistake, and you are dead. Justice, if you can call it that, is brutal and absolute in the shifter world.

The thought briefly distracts me, as it always does. Alpha Prime. Every time I hear it, my inner child whispers “Optimus Prime.” The Transformers fan in me won’t let it go. Of course, the Alpha Prime isn’t a giant robot fighting for freedom and humanity. He is the ruthless leader of an entire people, with the authority to decide life or death with a single word.

Shrouded in secrecy and speculation, knowledge about shifters has always been limited to a need-to-know basis. The shifter world shares only what it must. I remember learning in school that only alphas—the leaders—retain full control when they are in their animal form. Maybe that’s why shifters enforce such strict security measures and maintain two impenetrable borders.

The idea of losing control and waking up with human skin between your teeth sends a shiver down my spine. I wrinkle my nose in revulsion. Nobody wants to channel their inner Hannibal Lecter.

At ten o’clock on the dot, the automatic glass doors glide open with a soft hiss, letting in a burst of damp air. My eyes flick up out of habit, and for a split second, I assume he is just another guest. But no—he’s unlike anyone I’ve ever seen, let alone a courier.

He looks absolutely lethal.

Standing over six feet tall, he is dressed in a flawlessly tailored deep navy suit with a matching tie that probably costs more than my car. The glimpse of a crisp white shirt beneath only emphasises the broad width of his shoulders. His build is a classic inverted triangle—muscular and imposing—suggesting he is no stranger to physical training. His close-cropped dark hair, military sharp, and clean-shaven face do little to soften his features.

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