Page 1 of Bitten Shifter

Chapter One

Their cars block the driveway,so I grab a free space further down the street without a second thought. I finished the freelance project early; it’s mid-morning, and Paul isn’t expecting me home.

I bet they are watching a film.

They have always been such good friends. Lately, Paul has been helping Dove more around her house, taking on the heavier, more physical tasks. I’m so proud of him—proud of how generous and kind he is, helping my sister for me. He’s thoughtful like that.

I hope they have got popcorn.

As I step through the door, something shifts in the air. A feeling of unease curls in my stomach, and the cutesy tune I’m humming catches in my throat.

Music. Sexy music.

Clothes lie haphazardly scattered across the floor—his and hers.

Still, like the absolute numpty I am, I convince myself there must be a straightforward explanation because there’s always a logical explanation. Right?

Instincts, which I ignore, scream at me to leave.Get back in the car, Lark, drive away, and come back later at your usual time!

But no. I ignore that little voice of reason. I don’t even know why I go upstairs.

I… need to see, I guess—silly me.

The door to the bedroom is wide open. I frown and tilt my head, hoping what is happening before me will magically change. If I view the scene from a different angle, it might be less obscene.

Less real.

Dove is vigorously riding my husband on our marital bed as if she is trying to break that sucker off.

My hand trembles as I pull out my phone. It takes two attempts to fish it out of my pocket, and my breath catches as I hit record.

I wince at her over-the-top screams.

I’m not a perv. This isn’t about voyeurism. I need evidence.

Evidence of the end of my marriage. If I don’t record it, he will gaslight me later. He will tell me it didn’t happen—that I misunderstood or imagined it all.

He can’t.

I might have a soft heart, but I’m no weak-willed ninny.

I only manage to film a few more seconds. I can’t stand here any longer. I’m sure I’ve recorded enough to make my point. Any more of this, and I will have to bleach my eyeballs.

With the loud music covering my retreat, on leaden legs, I back up, turn and go downstairs. Instinctively, I head to the furthest room in the house without stepping outside: the kitchen.

As soon as I lay eyes on the sink, bile rushes up my throat. The porcelain is cold under my sweaty palms as I silently throw up.

When my stomach is empty, I wonder what to do now. I imagine sitting on the sofa, waiting for them to finish their little romp and come downstairs. I picture myself, vomit dripping from my lips and bile burning my tongue, trying to look dignified as I yell,“Surprise!”Or maybe go with a classic:“Did you kids have fun?”

What do other people do in this situation? Do they rant? Scream? Break things?

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, tuck loose strands of brown hair behind my ears with shaky fingers, and blink back tears.

My eyes fall to the drawer where I keep the knives.

Deep inside, I feel the urge to do something dramatic and bloody.

But that’s not me. I’m not that person.

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