Page 57 of Bitten Shifter

“Seriously?” he says, feigning betrayal.

I grin, lick a stray crumb from my lip, and wave the second cupcake at him before stowing it in my room. “Not a chance.”

His grumbling protest follows us all the way to my next appointment, where an overly enthusiastic instructor hands me three massive tomes on shifter history and customs. Riker trails behind me as I trudge to the library.

The library is beautiful—towering shelves line the walls, and a fireplace is tucked into a cosy corner by the window. I settle into a chair and crack open the first book.

Fated mates. Fated mates…I dive into the index, flip to the page, and skim. According to shifter lore, fated mates are a rare gift from the gods, akin to human soulmates but with a deeper, primal bond. A fated mate can be anyone—human, shifter, vampire, or magic user. The connection is sacred, and shifters hold it in the highest esteem.

I pause at a section explaining that the animal within a shifter recognises its fated mate on sight, even if the mate does not have an animal. The text insists that with patience, work, and compassion, this bond can serve as the foundation for a loving, enduring partnership.

Sacred bonds, cosmic connections—sure.It all sounds like hokey pokey to me, but shifters swear by it. There’s even a legal clause stating that discovering a fated mate can annul existing marriages.

Convenient. I suspect Merrick planned to invoke that rule if he’d pursued me when I was human. But I was bitten, and the rules—and my life—changed dramatically.

I flip through the other books. They echo the same sentiments. Fated mates are rare, sacred, powerful, and life-changing. Blah, blah, blah.

“Are you all right?” Riker asks, breaking my focus.

I glance up. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, looking like he is itching to either run a marathon or punch someone.

“Do you need the toilet or something?” I ask with a cheeky grin.

He snorts. “No. I’m just bored. I was expecting more drama with your ex. It was… anticlimactic.” He shifts his weight yet again, clearly yearning for action.

I shut the book with a thud. “Do you want to spar?”

His eyes sharpen as he arches a brow. “Spar? With you?”

“Yes, with me. I could use a proper fight.”

He folds his arms, smirking. “Can you even fight?”

I gather the books, stack them neatly, and leave the library, heading for the barracks. “Thirty years of judo,” I say lightly.

He stumbles mid-stride, then recovers. “You have done thirty years of judo?You?”

“I started in my teens,” I explain, adjusting the books under my arm. “It’s been the one constant in my life. I only stopped because… well, age. My joints didn’t appreciate me throwing people around like I used to.”

Riker gives me a long look, his expression turning into something close to admiration. “All right, Alpha’s mate. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

I suppress a smile. “Careful what you wish for.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

We get changedand head to the state-of-the-art training block. The place is impressive—there’s an Olympic-sized pool, and I can hear the rhythmic slap of someone swimming laps. But it’s the practice room that draws me in like a magnet.

It’s built for combat. Thick blue mats cover every inch, providing a soft yet firm surface faintly textured for grip. The walls are lined with mirrors, giving the room a sense of space and allowing you to observe your every move. Along one side, storage racks hold training gear—pads, gloves, and a few practice weapons.

I warm up, stretching muscles that now feel almost new and strange with my enhanced body.

Riker mirrors me, talking about the thrilling subject of packs and shifter hierarchy while his sharp eyes track everything around us. He is constantly alert, watching the other trainees like a hawk searching for threats. It’s obvious he’s not just muscle—he is extremely good at his job.

The space is filled with activity. Some shifters fool around, while others spar with focus and precision. I ignore them. The looks and whispered comments have already started, mostlyabout who I am—the bitten human—rather than who I’m mated to.

I roll my eyes and tune them out. Let them talk.

“If someone’s high-ranking in a pack,” he continues his lesson, “they can’t challenge someone lower than them. Challenges only go one way from lower to higher. Keeps it fair—stops higher ranks from picking off the weaker ones for sport.” He shrugs, as though it’s common sense. “Of course, it’s different here. You’re all considered unranked, so any trainee can be formally challenged.”

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