Page 11 of Bitten Shifter

The part of me that would have shied away? That submissive part broke three days ago, and what remains lies somewhere in the hallway, scattered outside my bedroom door with the last scraps of my dignity. I’ve got nothing left to fear.

No fear. No joy. No hope…

Just rage.

A burning, unrelenting rage.

Chapter Four

Lark,what the heck are you doing?The thought cuts through me like ice water, jolting me out of my fury. My pulse stumbles, and shame quickly overtakes the anger. What was I thinking? Even among pure humans, direct eye contact like this can be considered aggressive.

Am I really trying to pick a fight with a shifter?

Suicidal?

I’m acting like a complete psycho.

I force myself to calm down. He has not done anything wrong. He can’t help being male, ridiculously tall, and absurdly handsome.

My lips quirk into a self-deprecating smile. He is probably used to clueless humans. The last thing I want is for him to think I’m rude—or worse, a bigot. The only thing I have left is work, and I can’t afford to mess this opportunity up by getting my head metaphorically—or literally—ripped off.

By now, he is standing before me, holding a hefty-looking envelope. Crap. I’ve missed my window to stand. If I do it now, we will be uncomfortably close. Instead, I stay seated and tilt my head up.

His nostrils flare and—wait—did he just sniff me?

I sit rigidly, pretending not to notice how deliberately he scents the air. Please, please let him be the courier and not some random guy who thinks sniffing humans in hotel lobbies is normal behaviour.

“Mrs Emerson,” he says, his voice low and formal.

I nod, relieved. “Yes, that’s me.” I keep my tone polite and professional. Since he is delivering documents, I mentally dub himMr First Class. “Are you the courier for the Ministry?”

“Something like that.”

I wince internally. Not a courier, then. Great. Of course he is not, not in that suit. Probably some Ministry bigwig, and I’ve already managed to screw this up.Come on, Lark, try to have some semblance of professionalism.

“May I see some identification?” he asks.

“Yeah, sure.” Awkwardly, I lift my hips and dig into the deep pocket of the cheap jogging bottoms I picked up in Tesco. After some fumbling, I retrieve my ID and hand it to him.

Careful not to touch my fingers, he takes the plastic card with a precision that feels deliberate. He studies it for what feels like an eternity, his thumb brushing over my name in an almost absentminded way. His jaw tightens slightly before he flicks the card between his fingers and hands it back.

I accept it and, with a polite smile, also take the package he extends to me. My arms sag slightly under its unexpected weight, and I balance it on my knees. “Okay, well, thank you.”

He does not move.

I tilt my head and give him a small wave, encouraging him to move on like a lost lamb. “Thank you for coming and dropping this off.”

“No, Mrs Emerson,” he says, his tone patient but firm. “I must wait for you to review the documents and, if necessary, sign them.”

“Oh.” My eyebrows shoot up. “I thought it was just paperwork for me to look over.” I glance down at the package, and its heft suddenly feels more significant. “That’s… unconventional.”

I glance around, the awkwardness pressing in. Should I do this here in the middle of the lobby? It’s not like I can invite him up to my room. “It might take some time,” I warn, trying to gauge his reaction. “Would you like to take a seat?”

He scans the area briefly, then shakes his head. “No, I’m fine.” He settles into what I can only describe as parade rest, hands clasped behind his back, looking completely at ease.

“Right, okay.” I try not to dwell on his unnerving stillness. I tug at the hem of my cheap Primark jumper, adjust my posture, and do my best to focus. Flipping the package over, I notice the flap is sealed with a blob of dark red wax stamped with a wolf.Very fancy.

I hum softly and carefully break the seal without damaging the wax, then slide my fingers inside, wiggling the documents free.

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