Page 35 of Bitten Shifter

I push myself up slightly and look around. The room feels like it’s been plucked straight out of a storybook. The walls are covered in dainty floral-patterned wallpaper adorned with small frames holding intricate, hand-drawn portraits. In the corner stands an old-fashioned wardrobe, its dark wood polished to a shine, next to a small dressing table with an oval mirror.

“Hello?” I call, slipping out of bed. My bare feet sink into a warm rug. “Is anyone there? I’m awake.”

Nothing. The house is silent.

My work outfit is gone. I’m squeaky clean, dressed in soft jogging bottoms and a long-sleeved jumper.

I also feel… fine. Too fine. Pushing up the sleeve of the jumper, I check my arm. The wound should still be gnarly, but it isn’t. It looks years older than it should. Looping scars twistaround my forearm. I rub it, my fingers tracing the ropy muscle. It’s slightly dented, but there’s no pain. I open and close my fist. Everything works perfectly.

When the bedroom door creaks open, my eyes snap to the widening gap. I wait, expecting someone to appear, but no one does. Could it have been the wind from an open window?

Gah. This entire situation is giving me the creeps.

How did I get here? Have I been asleep so long that I’ve healed?

I screw my eyes shut and rub my forehead vigorously. Come on, brain. Flashes of memory surface, hiding Sophie in the ceiling—I hope she is safe. The agony of teeth sinking into my arm. The white and grey wolves fighting. Bleeding as I walked home.

My stomach drops. “Shit. I’m in the wizard’s house.”

Gentle magic washes over me like a soft pat on the head, and the bedroom door swings wider—an invitation. Goosebumps ripple across my skin. I glance back at the bed, then at the door.

Instead of crawling under the covers and pretending none of this is happening, I force myself to move.

I step into the hallway and head downstairs.

At the foot of the stairs, my black trainers—the same ones soaked in blood and muck last night—sit neatly on a shoe rack by the front door. I stop, unease prickling the back of my neck. They are spotless, gleaming as if they have just come out of the box. I reach to grab them, and the entire rack disappears into the wall.

“What the—” I step back, and the rack pops out again.

“Oh, so you don’t want me to go? I can take a hint.”

Down the hall, a door creaks open. My muscles ache as I shuffle over and peer inside. It’s a dining room, and a single place is set at the far end of a long mahogany table. A high-backed chair slides out with a gentle scrape of wood on the carpet. Beside the plate, a fork performs a quick, playful twirl,then makes an oddly cute scooping motion before lying back down.

“What in theBeauty and the Beastis going on?”

This house has a soul. I’ve felt it ever since I stumbled into its garden last night, half dead and scared out of my mind. Whatever magic resides here—it’s not malicious. If it wanted to hurt me, it could have done so while I lay unconscious. Instead, it healed my wounds, cleaned me, dressed me, and tucked me into bed.

Swallowing my fear, I square my shoulders and enter the dining room.

The chair is warm as I lower myself into it.

On the table are a glass of water, a tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, and a steaming cup of coffee. The rich, nutty aroma of the coffee makes me groan. I gulp the water first, soothing my parched throat, then lift the coffee to my lips.

My eyes flutter shut as the taste blooms across my tongue. “Oh, wow,” I murmur. It’s delicious—better than anything the Wee Beastie could brew. “Thank you,” I add softly, unsure if the house can hear me but needing to say it anyway.

My attention shifts to the breakfast before me—perfect golden toast, fluffy scrambled eggs, a small mountain of baked beans, and a neat row of eight crispy bacon rashers. I hesitate, glancing at the thankfully inert fork. I poke it once, just in case, then pick it up and take a cautious bite.

It’s incredible.

My stomach growls, and suddenly I’m ravenous. I devour every bite, the meal’s warmth chasing away the lingering cold in my bones. I can almost feel my blood sugar rising.

When I set down the fork, the plate disappears, whisked away as though by an unseen hand. In its place appears a bowl of fruit—perfectly sliced melon, juicy strawberries, crisp appleslices, and fragrant orange segments. I eat those too, savouring the burst of sweetness.

“I need to be going soon,” I say, my voice tentative. “I have to report to the Ministry. They will want to know what happened, and I don’t want them thinking I had anything to do with last night.”

The house remains silent, but the air shifts. A faint, comforting warmth brushes my cheek, like an unseen hand offering reassurance.

I yawn, my body betraying me as fatigue creeps back in. My gaze falls to the white scar peeking out from under my sleeve. It’s unsettling how clean and healed it looks, compared to the gory mess I was last night. By all rights, I should be dead. If not from blood loss, then from the vampire who would’ve gladly drained the rest of me if the wards hadn’t stopped him.

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