Page 36 of Bitten Shifter

“Thank you,” I say softly, meaning it with every fibre of my being. “Thank you for saving my life.”

I trace my fingers over the edge of the table, thinking. Healing magic is rare, usually performed by medical mages who chant wounds closed or fix broken bones. It’s incredible—but also outrageously expensive. How did this house heal me? Could the soul inhabiting it have once belonged to a med mage?

The thought lingers as I glance around the room. “Thank you for the meal and for keeping me safe.”

Another yawn escapes. It’s getting hard to keep my eyes open. Eating, healing, and the weight of everything I’ve been through—it’s too much. My chin dips to my chest, and the room blurs around me. Sleep pulls me under, and I don’t resist.

Chapter Fourteen

My eyes drift shutfor what feels like a second. When I open them with a sharp gasp, everything has changed.

I’m no longer in the dining room. I’m no longer in the wizard’s house.

Instead, I’m back in my bedroom. The familiar beams on the ceiling stretch above me, the warm covers tucked snugly around me, my pillow perfectly fluffed beneath my head.

I blink, disoriented. “How did I get back here?” I whisper into the stillness. “Did I imagine all of it?”

For a moment, doubt creeps in. Maybe it was all some fever dream, a hallucination brought on by blood loss and adrenaline. But the lingering taste of freshly brewed coffee and ripe fruit on my tongue tells me otherwise. My stomach—full, warm, and content—certainly does not feel imaginary.

The house zapped me back here.

It knew I was too tired to leave on my own, so it sent me home.

Wow.

A shrill ringing pierces the quiet. I groan, my hair a wild tangle, and push it away from my face. The sound grates at my ears, relentless and urgent.

The phone.

I stumble out of bed, legs shaky, and shuffle down the hallway. My black trainers are sitting neatly by the front door, side by side.

This is getting weird.

The phone keeps ringing, leading me toward the kitchen. When I reach the counter, I find my mobile beside a neatly folded pile of clean work clothes—the same clothes I wore last night, now spotless.

Before I can grab it, the ringing stops.

“Of course it stops,” I mutter, rubbing my face with both hands. My hair is a disaster—a riot of dark waves that feels heavier, somehow fuller. “What is going on with my hair?”

The landline starts ringing—the dusty one hidden behind the sofa. It can only be work as no one else has the number.

My bladder, however, has other priorities, and it’s not taking no for an answer. I do a ridiculous wee-shuffle-dance to the loo and take care of business. Afterwards, I wash my hands, glance up—and freeze.

There’s a stranger in the mirror.

I lean forward so fast my forehead almost headbutts the glass. My breath fogs the surface as I study the face staring back.

No.

No, no, no.

“Oh my gosh, what did the magic of the house do?”

The woman in the mirror is me, but not me.

I tilt my head.

The stranger tilts hers back.

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