Page 2 of Bitten Shifter

I’ve always been the peacemaker.

The pacifier.

The doormat.

I’m a practical person.

I get socially anxious and fret about saying the wrong thing, second-guessing every word that comes out of my mouth. In every situation, I never quite know what to do with my hands—they are strange, floppy, awkward things.

And I’m happiest curled up on the sofa with a book or buried in lines of monotonous code at work.

I’ve had training—if I hurt them, I will be the one locked up.

I’m not made for prison.

I can’t touch them, even if I have every right to feel angry and betrayed. I can’t ruin my life.

What life?

Our twenty-seven-year marriage is gone. The wreckage sits heavy on my chest, weighing me down. I feel broken, sad, and so bloody stupid.

It’s ridiculous. What a waste.

What a waste of a lifetime spent with someone who never really loved me. Because if Paul loved me, he wouldn’t be upstairs screwing my sister.

When we met, he was twenty-six, and I was a fresh-faced nineteen. So young. So naïve. And now? Now I’m a silly, middle-aged woman huddled in her kitchen while the two most important people in my life enjoy each other upstairs.

No, wait. Hold on.

I’m not even middle-aged, am I?

What is the average human lifespan these days? Eighty, if you are lucky? But last I checked, scientifically speaking, it’s closer to seventy-three—if you don’t end up a chew toy for a shifter or a vampire, that is. So, if you think about it, middle age is thirty-six and a half.

Thirty-six and a half.

Shit.

That’s so young. And by that measure, I’m eleven years past middle age. I’m already well into dipping my toes into being useless to society.

I never thought I’d be useless to him—or that my sister would be a better fit. What a cliché. My sister. Paul had to do this with my beautiful, gregarious older sister.

At least it isn’t a secretary—that I know of. I shake my head, my chin dropping as a pain-filled sigh rattles through my chest.

He is a weak-willed sisterfucker.

And Dove? She took the man I’d spent twenty-eight years of my life with… because she could.

After everything I’ve done for her. I’ve been her rock, made sacrifices, and there was nothing—nothing—I wouldn’t have done for my sister.

If she called me to help bury a body, I’d show up with a shovel and gloves, no questions asked. Dove? She wouldn’t ring for helpif I were on fire. No, she’d warm her hands and complain about the smell of burning skin.

I loved them.

I trusted them.

What a mug I am.

I groan and bury my face in my hands. At least we never had kids. We were both selected for forced sterilisation as teenagers—a gift for the not-so-perfect specimens of the pure human population.

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