Page 27 of Bitten Shifter

The security guards are down.

From this angle, I can’t tell if they were shot or if the noise came from wands. Stupidly, I left my glasses in the server room. Either way, whoever’s gotten into the building must be professional to get past our military-grade security.

Screams echo from below, interspersed with sharp bangs and barked orders.

“On your knees! Hands where I can see them! On your knees!”

Few people are left in the building at this hour, but the intruders are so loud they sound like a mob.

Breathe, Lark. Think.

I’ve trained in Judo for over three decades. While Dove twirled in ballet shoes, I was on the mat, learning throws and falls. Judo didn’t merely teach me discipline—it gave me tools on how to control my magic and temper, how to stay balanced physically and emotionally, and how to remain calm under pressure.

But none of that feels useful right now.

What I miss most about Judo is the beauty of it—the precision of locking down joints, the satisfaction of putting some six-foot meathead on his arse and twisting him into a pretzel until he tapped out.

But the first lesson? The one drilled into me over and over?

Run.

You don’t fight knives, guns, or derivatives bigger and badder than you.

My heart pounds and my entire body shakes as adrenaline floods my system. I take that training to heart and frantically search for a place to hide.

The glass corridors are too exposed, and the brew room offers no salvation. A few tiny cupboards, barely big enoughto hide a cat, and nothing else. This modern building wasn’t designed with hiding in mind.

I’m trapped.

I scan the room again, desperate. My gaze roams over every surface and corner until, for some reason, I look up.

The ceiling tiles.

For eff’s sake, no.I shake my head. The idea is ridiculous.

But the voices and banging grow closer.

I spring into action. Dumping my coffee down the sink, I rinse the cup and squirt a generous dollop of bleach down the drain. The sharp chemical smell hits my nose, and I hope it will hide my scent—or at least confuse whoever might come sniffing.

Grabbing a chair from the small table, I step onto it, wobbling slightly. Then, with a reluctant glance at my beloved coffee machine, I climb onto the counter. The surface creaks ominously under my weight as my toes press against the edge of the machine, my heels dangling precariously.

The ceiling tiles are just within reach. I stretch upward, shoving at the white, spongy square until it slides off its metal lip and rests atop the tile next to it. The gap looks big enough for my shoulders. If they fit, the rest of me will follow—or so I tell myself.

Oh, bloody hell.I’m now head-height with the ceiling. There’s no chance. I’m not some spry action hero who can hoist herself up with a single pull-up. This isn’t a movie. Sarah Connor, I am not. I haven’t done a chin-up in seven years.

I glance down at the sturdy coffee machine, grimace, and mentally cross my fingers. The counter groans again as I shift my weight. Carefully, I place one hand against the wall for balance and step onto the machine.

“Sorry, Wee Beastie,” I whisper, as if apologising will make this any less insane. “Please don’t break.”

My head and shoulders disappear into the ceiling, and I crane my neck to get a better look. The thin metal frame of the tiles isn’t built to support a person’s weight. But to my left is salvation, a large, solid duct—part of the kitchen’s ventilation system.

It’s not ideal, but it’s my only option.

I’m going to have to pull myself up.

Gripping the edge of the vent, I try to haul myself up. My arms tremble, and I hiss through clenched teeth.

What am I even doing?

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