Page 31 of Bitten Shifter

His voice snaps me out of my stupor. Without thinking, I raise the dart gun and fire, not even bothering to aim. The shot hisses. One of them collapses with a heavythud.

“Oh, shit.” I spin on my heel and bolt in the opposite direction. “Oh, shit. Oh, shit.”

Behind me, the other man’s voice crackles as he shouts into his radio for backup. My breath hitches. Without slowing, I fling my magic behind me, aiming for his earpiece.

I’m not a real mage—barely a magical toddler—but I can disrupt a poxy signal. It’s messy, crude work, but I hope it’s enough to throw them off. Let’s see how they like being unable to communicate.

My trainers squeal against the concrete as I burst through the emergency stairs door, nearly colliding with the wall. They will expect me to go down, so I go up.

When I’m one level higher, I force myself to stop. Sprinting headlong in blind panic won’t help. I grip the stair rail, doing my best to pant silently.

My stomach churns, and my legs tremble. At least the sprint has worn off some of the stiffness in my body. I don’t feel like roadkill anymore—just prey trying to outrun the predator on its tail.

Okay, Lark. You’ve got this. Just keep moving.

I take a deep breath, placing my next step as silently as possible. Futile, really—if shifters are after me, they will smell the sweat and fear oozing from my pores like a neon sign.

I just have to hold on until help arrives.

Behind me, the door below creaks open with a low, ominous groan. I tiptoe upward, every nerve on high alert. The hair on the back of my neck rises—an instinct I can’t explain. My lizard brain screams danger even before the sound reaches me.

A low growl resonates through the stairwell.

Well, there’s no running from that.

What an incredible way to see my first shifter in animal form—while being hunted.

I’m so terrified. I’m shocked I haven’t wet myself. I think it’s a wolf, though I’m no expert. The growl is low and guttural—more dog than cat.

Instead of bolting headlong into certain doom, I pause in the corner. Heart hammering, I drop to the floor, roll onto my belly, and wriggle into position. Flat on the ground, arms outstretched, the dart gun steady in my grip, I hover my finger over the trigger.

I’ve seen people do this on TV. It seems logical to keep the target small, stay on the ground, and keep out of reach.

I’m also higher than the shifter, which has to be a slight advantage. Right?

Ignoring the reality that I’m facing a killing machine with claws and teeth, I steady my breathing and focus.

The shifter below isn’t running. It’s hunting. Stealthy. Precise.

The softclick, clickof nails on the concrete stairs reaches my ears—quiet but utterly terrifying.

I swallow hard, my mouth dry as bone.

Closing one eye, I sight down the barrel, using the little bump thingy—whatever it’s called—to aim down the stairs.

I suppose I’m as ready as I will ever be.

All those hours playingDuck Huntas a kid had better pay off. Thirty-eight years later, Mum, let’s hope you were wrong and it wasn’t all a waste of time. I keep my breathing even, picturing a quacking duck on a bright blue screen—maybe there was a tree or some grass? I can’t remember.

Steady, Lark. Steady.

Another growl echoes, deeper this time. My breath catches as I spot sandy-brown fur shimmering under the emergency lights. Then I see his eyes—glowing amber, lock on me with predatory intent.

Ah, so theydoglow when they hunt. Great. Unless he is doing it on purpose to scare the crap out of me.

Steady. Wait until you have more of his body in sight.

The wolf prowls around the corner, his chest coming into view—broad, powerful, muscles rippling beneath thick fur.

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