Page 40 of Bitten Shifter

Everything feels… different.

The air smells like me—vanilla body cream, the chemical strawberry scent of my shampoo, faint perspiration clinging to the sheets, and the metallic tang of coins in the bowl by the front door. It’s as though the apartment is steeped in every smell I’ve ever left behind. It’s eerie how a room can capture so much of its occupant.

Outside, I hear a bike. I can even hear the rider’s breathing and the crunch of tyres on gravel.

My ears twitch—wait, no, that can’t be right! I slap a hand against my perfectly normal-shaped ear, shake my head, and try to clear it, but it’s no use.

The faint ticking of the wall clock swells inside my head like a relentless metronome,tick, tick, tick,hammering against my skull.

I clench my teeth, and even that feels wrong.

“Oh no,” I whisper, rubbing my temples. My voice sounds too loud.

I’ve changed again.

I don’t feel human—not any more.

In the hallway, I see the jagged edge where the wooden floor meets the skirting board and the tiny scratches in the varnish. I can pick out every fibre of the duvet cover under my hand. It’s startlingly crisp against my fingers, almost painful. Every thread, crease, and imperfection is suddenly vibrant beneath my touch.

It’s as though my body no longer knows how to filter the world.

I stand, and the motion feels alien—too smooth, too deliberate. I prowl. My eyes widen, and a raw, frightened sound escapes me.

“Why is this happening to me?” I mutter, gripping the edge of the door.

The wood groans under my fingers, and somehow, I know that if I squeeze just a little more, it will crumble to dust.

“It’s too much. Way too much.”

Moving with bizarre, fluid grace, I head to the dressing room and grab the cotton wool balls I usually use to cleanse my face. I pull a couple apart and shove a generous wad up each nostril and into my ears.

The cotton wool muffles the world, muting the onslaught of these new sounds and scents. My heart rate finally slows, and I manage a deep, steady breath. I can still taste the smells on my tongue, but the cotton helps. At least I no longer hear footsteps outside anymore.

Short of blindfolding myself, I can’t do much about my vision. For now, I will just try not to focus too hard on anything.

I check the time.

At least one thing is going my way—I haven’t slept the day away. There are still hours left before I’m supposed to see Merrick tomorrow. I have time.

Time to figure this out.

I need to work on these overwhelming senses and learn how to control myself. I can’t spend the rest of my life wandering around with wads of cotton wool shoved in my ears and nose. That’s hardly a solution—it’s barely a stopgap.

Whether I like it or not, I need an ally. I need Mr First Class’s help. But he is not going to lift a finger for me if I turn up rocking in a corner, screaming about the ticking clock or the smell of loose change by the door. He wouldn’t understand. How could he? He has lived with these senses all his life, learned to adapt, probably does not notice them any more. For him, this is normal.

If life has taught me one thing, it’s that panic never helps. Acting in panic only digs the hole deeper and makes things worse.

So I inhale deeply and plant my feet on the floor.

Positive thinking for the win. I can do this.

“Okay, let’s see what this new body can do.”

I’d normally go to the gym, but nobody needs to see me like this—the madwoman with cotton wool everywhere. Not yet. I’m not ready to leave the apartment, let alone the building.

I push the furniture aside to create space and stand barefoot in the middle of the living room.

Extending my arms, I study my hands, flexing my fingers before curling them into fists. They look familiar, but they are not the same. My nails feel sharper, and I can sense the currentsof cool air sliding over each finger, as if the slightest movement stirs a breeze.

---