Page 38 of Bitten Shifter

This face, though—wide eyes, absurdly full lips. It’s as if magic took the golden ratio as a personal dare and decided to show off. I don’t want this. I don’t want to be this person, to appear twenty-plus years younger, to be young again.

Everyone says youth and beauty are gifts, but to me, beauty is a trap.

The landline starts ringing again, relentlessly, followed by the mobile. Whoever’s calling isn’t giving up; they are seriously determined. The noise cuts through my thoughts, grounding me in the present. Grateful there are no more mirrors in the rest of the apartment, I slam the bathroom door behind me, shutting out my reflection.

I grab the mobile off the counter. The screen flashesnumber withheld—a lump forms in my throat. I hate answering these kinds of calls, but I press the button anyway.

“Hello?”

“Mrs Emerson, where have you been?” growls a familiar voice.

Merrick.

How on earth do I recognise his voice? Goosebumps erupt along my arms. “Oh, hi. Have you got a parcel for me?”

“Answer the question. Where have you been? It’s been two days.”

“Two days?” I squeak, yanking the phone away to check the date. Oh crap. He is right—it has been two days. I suppose rearranging your face and body takes time. Clearing my throat, I try to sound casual. “Well, you see, I got bitten, and?—”

“I know you got bitten. I was there when you bled all over the place.”

My heart skips a beat. So, I was right. He was the one fighting the white wolf.

“Thank you?—”

“Are you okay? Where have you been? There’ve been no reports at the medical centre of your admission. How are you still alive? How did you heal yourself, Mrs Emerson?”

I clamp my mouth shut, panic bubbling in my chest. How am I supposed to explain this?

“Is there some magic you brought through the sector border we’re unaware of?” he presses.

“No,” I mumble, my voice small. “No, the, you see—” I stop. Nothing I say is going to sound sane.

“Your blood trail ends at the wizard’s house.”

Anger flares, and I snarl, “Oh, if you already know the answer, why bother asking?” I fling my free hand up and pace the kitchen like a caged animal.

“I wanted to see if you were going to lie.”

“You didn’t give me a chance!” I snap, then, quieter, “I’m not going to lie.”

Not that I could, given the evidence written all over my face. How exactly do I answer the door to greet him like this? With a bag over my head and call it a new fashion trend?

His growl reverberates through the phone, and something inside me stirs. I glance at my arm, almost expecting to see fur sprouting through my skin. Whatever’s happening to me isn’t just on the surface. It’s deeper. It’s much more than how I look.

He is still talking—ranting, really—but my head is buzzing, and I’ve completely tuned him out. “Merrick, I’m sorry,” I cut in. “I’m not feeling well. I really need to go back to bed.”

“Lark, did you at least get medical attention?”

“Yes. About that…” My words falter. How do I explain?

“I’m coming to your apartment,” he declares.

“No, no, no, no, no, no,” I squeak, then fake a loud, exaggerated yawn. “I, um, like I said, I’m not feeling well. And, um, I’m really tired. I need some rest.”

“You are refusing to see me?” His tone is incredulous, like no one’s ever dared tell him no before.

“Please, just give me a couple of days. I will call the Ministry to explain everything, so no one gets into trouble. Is Sophie okay? I put her in the?—”

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