Page 33 of Bitten Shifter

I clutch my bitten arm, feeling blood seeping between my fingers—warm and sticky. Pain radiates in sharp pulses, but I can’t take my eyes off the fight.

The grey wolf is steady and focused, using his sheer size to overpower the smaller, more frantic white wolf. His movements are controlled and deliberate. As he bites down again, blood spraying, his head turns slightly, and I glimpse his eyes—pale blue, like shards of ice catching the light.

Husky eyes.

My breath catches.Merrick?

No, I’m delirious. It can’t be him. I haven’t seen Mr First Class in months, not since I signed my contract. My head is fuzzy, my vision is hazy. The pain clouds everything, pulling me back to the reality of my mangled arm.

The sharp agony makes me wince. My poor forearm is a mess—bloody, torn, and barely functional. I can’t bring myself to look at it. The sight alone would turn my stomach.

Lark, get your arse up. Move. You need to get away from those wolves.

I have no idea if the grey wolf is trying to save me or drive off competition for his next meal—a human snack.

Summoning every ounce of willpower, I struggle to pull my jumper over my head, leaving me in just my bra and work trousers. Modesty is the least of my worries. I wrap the blue fabric tightly around my arm, biting back a cry as the pressure sends fresh waves of pain shooting through me.

It’s not ideal. It’s not hygienic. But it’s better than bleeding out on these cursed stairs.

Wobbling, I force myself upright. My legs are like jelly, and every movement feels monumental. On my toes, I carefully skirt around the darted wolf, placing my feet in the narrow gaps between its limp form and the edge of the treads. My good hand brushes the cold metal railing for balance. The last thing I need is a fast trip down these stairs, adding a broken neck to my growing list of problems.

A glint of metal and plastic catches my eye—the dart gun.

I crouch, barely holding myself steady, and scoop it up without passing out.

Three floors later, I stumble through the fire door at the back of the building. I’m out.

The night air hits me like a slap on my sweat-drenched skin—a chilling reminder of how exposed I am.

It’s still pitch dark, and I know I shouldn’t be out here. Leaving the building half-dressed and bleeding heavily is a suicide mission.

I lean against the smooth glass wall, smearing blood in messy streaks as I try to catch my breath. My head pounds in sync with my pulse, an unbearable pressure that muddles my thoughts, clouding my judgment.

I shouldn’t be making any life-changing decisions right now, but… I need help.

Overriding everything is the gnawing fear that I’m not safe here.

Wolves are fighting on the stairs, and I don’t know what other threats might be lurking around the building. I can’t go to the front entrance—it’s just as dangerous. There’s nowhere safe. Nowhere I can be sure I won’t run into gun-toting maniacs or another snarling shifter.

I can’t be sure who’s friend or foe.

The soft glow of the distant path lights twinkle like a cruel taunt. Do I stay and wait for whatever fresh hell is coming, or do I take my chances out there?

I’m in a no-win situation. My gut twists. There’s no good option, but I can’t just stand here waiting to be killed.

Every instinct tells me I need to get somewhere familiar, somewhere secure. I want to go home. At least there, I will have locked doors, my own space, and security guards who can help me get medical attention.

That thought drives me forward. The need to escape overwhelms the warning bells in my mind, and my flight instinct takes over.

One shaky step after another, I head towards the gravel path that’ll lead me home. My steps sway, my vision wavers. After only a few minutes, I realise I’ve made a mistake.

I shouldn’t have left.

The blow to my head has rattled my brain and knocked out all my common sense.

My left sock feels oddly wet, and my trainer squelches with every step. I must be bleeding where the white wolf dug his claws into my leg. Great. What a nightmare. My hand tightens on the gun’s grip. If anything comes for me, it’s not getting me without a fight.

My vision narrows, but I keep moving, propelled by sheer determination. Passing a large oak tree, I recognise it—I’m almost home. Just a couple more minutes, and I can get medical attention.

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