Page 27 of Bitten Shifter (The Bitten Chronicles #1)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

My heart pounds and adrenaline surges as they shove me into the back of the van. The interior is caged like a police transport, its metal bench cold and unyielding beneath me. Two armed men climb in, one on each side. The chatty one sits opposite me, grinning like a loon as though this is some grand victory.

Paul. Bloody Paul. It all comes back to him. He couldn’t just let me go—couldn’t accept that our marriage was finished. How do you promise to love someone forever, then hand them over to Human First like a sacrificial lamb?

Twenty-eight years. Twenty-eight years! And I meant nothing to him. The instant I stopped being human, he decided he’d rather see me dead.

My heart aches, raw and jagged. The pain slices so deep it feels like it might tear me apart. Was I so blind? Was he always this selfish, or was I simply that… amenable—easy to overlook, easy to take for granted, easy to bend?

What a mug I am.

And now here I am, trapped in this strange, fated bond with Merrick—destiny, not choice. Yet like a fool, I sacrificed myself for him.

The worst part is I’d do it again, because it felt right. The world needs more men like him. I’m not the kind of person who can stand by and watch someone die in my place. It’s not in me to look the other way, to pretend it’s not my problem.

Maybe that makes me foolish. Maybe I have some hero complex, or I’m just missing the critical component that screams na?ve or lacking self-preservation. It does not matter.

The van lurches, and my body sways with the movement. My stiff arms, bound behind my back, protest with every jolt. Pain radiates through my chest and shoulders, a cruel reminder of the crash.

Please, Merrick, be okay.

Each bump ignites a new wave of agony. I can already feel the bloom of seat belt bruises forming along my torso, dark marks to match the turmoil within.

I can’t decide if I’m frightened or furious. My emotions collide, fragmenting in every direction. Fear threatens to take hold, dragging me into helplessness, into being a victim. But anger—anger is something I understand. It hones my thoughts and sharpens my focus. I inhale deeply, fuelling that fury and clinging to it like a lifeline. Fear clouds the mind, but anger? Anger keeps me alive.

Part of me wonders why they haven’t killed me yet. They could have done it on the roadside without any fuss.

“What are you waiting for?” I blurt out, my voice steady despite the roiling emotions underneath. “You want to kill me—why not do it now?”

Chatty smirks, evidently pleased with himself. “Oh, we will get there. But a dignified ending requires planning. You know how it goes—sometimes, you have to make a spectacle for the message to really sink in. Killing you isn’t only about you—it’s about sending a message. Human First needs the world to see what happens when humans betray their own. It will put us on the map.”

“I haven’t betrayed anyone.”

“You turned,” he spits, his grin slipping briefly. “That’s enough.”

He pulls out a roll of duct tape, rips off a strip with his teeth, and slaps it across my mouth. The adhesive stings. “I’m sick of your talking,” he mutters.

One of his companions laughs. “What is it with you people? Always wanting to defend yourselves. Always with the ‘why me?’ questions.”

They share a hearty laugh like it’s the best joke they have ever heard.

Inside, I’m coiled tight, but I keep my expression calm and cast my gaze to the floor. There’s no point in arguing. Arguing with zealots is pointless. Let them think they have won for now. I will wait for the right moment to save myself. There will be a moment, and they won’t see it coming.

Human First. I mentally snarl. I always knew they were dangerous, but I never thought they would stoop to outright murder. Then again, why wouldn’t they? Organisations fuelled by hate. Hate groups are tinderboxes—just a single spark away from an inferno. Hatred breeds violence. It’s only a matter of time before rhetoric becomes weaponry and protest becomes bloodshed.

Chatty lounges back, arms crossed. “You should’ve died with dignity when they mauled you. Now look at you—all mangled up and… one of them.” Disgust twists his features, though his gaze flicks towards my chest, lingering.

Disgust and fury churn within me, but I focus on my breathing.

The thing inside me stirs. She hates this. Her anger is raw and feral, and even with the band, I sense her scratching to get out. My mind flicks to Alice. Not yet. Please, not now.

I bow my head, pain flaring in my lower back as the van rattles on.

I might actually die here.

My thoughts flit to Paul. Was there ever a scenario where this didn’t end like this? Then Merrick crosses my mind—his fierce protection, his unwavering strength. It’s not only his impossible beauty; it’s his presence, his certainty. I should be furious with him for barging into my life, yet I’m so grateful he did.

I recall Paul’s shocked face when Merrick claimed me, Dove’s jealousy souring the air. It wasn’t the closure I’d imagined, but it was a measure of justice—a hilariously perfect mic-drop moment. And Merrick, Riker—they have both stood by me. In mere days, I’ve found more loyalty than I ever had in nearly three decades of marriage.

Life is short—too short to stay loyal to the wrong people, too short to stay silent or let fear rule. More than anything, I don’t want to die here. Not like this.

They have underestimated me.

I inhale and sink into the spiky warmth of my magic, feeling out the tech around me. One of the men has a phone in his pocket. I tug at its software, sending a quick message to Riker with the van’s number plate and granting him access to the phone’s GPS.

There will be repercussions if I survive, questions I can’t answer without revealing my technomancy, but secrecy doesn’t matter much if I’m dead.

An hour passes. We have crossed two zones, and from their conversation, it’s clear we’re heading for Zone Four—the coast. They discuss bribed patrols, smugglers, and ways to slip past Shifter Ministry sea defences.

When we arrive, they haul me from the van into a cavernous warehouse that reeks of damp, rust, and abandonment. Water puddles across the uneven floor, reflecting stray beams of light. A pigeon flutters through a hole in the roof, its wings a frantic blur in the dingy space.

“This is redevelopment territory,” Chatty says. “Shifters have been knocking these old buildings down to build new ones. But this relic is still here—pre-sector.” He sighs, almost wistful. “The good old days, before everything went to pot.”

The good old days. He can’t be more than thirty, so what does he know? Nostalgia is a funny thing—selective and warped; people remember what they choose.

I focus on the men, the shadows, and possible exits. They swap the zip ties for metal cuffs that bite into my wrists. This time my hands are secured in front. They drag me to the centre of the warehouse, where a wobbly chair is being hastily set up. Forced onto it, I feel the floor’s uneven ground beneath me as they chain me in place.

In front of me stands a complete camera rig, its lights glaring and hot.

“This has to be perfect,” barks one of the men, sounding like a second-rate, overzealous film director. Nearby, another man in a balaclava sharpens a long, gleaming knife.

Great. Just great.

‘Camera Guy’ crouches to adjust the lens. “Quiet, everyone!” he orders, then begins recording.

Using a voice distorter, Chatty steps forward and delivers a pompous spiel. They are not editing; it’s being broadcast live. I stare into the camera, my breath rasping against the duct tape. I don’t need to fake the tears. I sniff. If my nose clogs completely with snot, I will suffocate.

“We’re here today…” Chatty decrees an absurd list of fabricated charges against me. Apparently, I’m guilty of betraying humanity by using ‘magical means’ to survive the bite and turn shifter. He rails about quotas and how Human First is here to ‘correct the injustice’ and destroy the ‘traitor.’

As his tirade drags on, the man in the balaclava creeps forward, knife glinting. I reach for my magic, sinking into the circuits of their equipment. Smoke curls from the camera, and the feed dies with a sizzle.

“What the hell?” Camera Guy exclaims, smacking the device. “Damn thing just died, and it’s only six months old!”

“At least it’s under warranty,” someone mutters.

Camera Guy scowls and stomps off. Balaclava gives me a meaningful look before backing away. A technical glitch has spared me—temporarily.

The delay gives me time to trace and dismantle the live feed, tearing it apart. By the time I’m done, there’s no trace left.

Fifteen tense minutes later, Camera Guy returns with an older backup camera. He meticulously sets up the replacement, adjusting the angle and muttering under his breath.

“It’s not going to be as high quality,” he complains.

“Just get on with it!” Chatty snaps, pacing.

“Fine, fine. Silence, please,” Camera Guy says, fiddling with the backup camera before finally hitting record.

I bide my time, and as soon as Balaclava steps forward again, I trace its signals, destroy the feed, and fry the circuits in the backup camera.

Another puff of smoke. Another severed connection. Another round of curses.

“Why does this keep happening?” Chatty fumes, spinning towards me.

“Maybe there’s anti-tech interference?” Camera Guy suggests lamely.

They all turn to me.

“You’re something else, aren’t you?” Chatty growls, moving closer. “What are you doing?”

Behind the duct tape, I smile.

“Someone find the Magic Hunter!” Chatty yells.

Magic Hunter? My heart falters. That can’t be good.

“Isn’t he on watch duty?” one man mumbles.

“Get him! We just need five minutes before this place is swarming with shifters—long enough to slit this bitch’s throat.”

The Magic Hunter strides in, kitted out in combat gear. White-blond hair stark against his sharp features. Pale eyes sweep the room, landing on me. “What now? You’re paying me to watch for shifters, not play babysitter,” he snaps.

“She’s messing with the camera equipment. Do something, Hunter!” Chatty retorts, nearly shoving him but stopping short at the last second.

The Hunter’s lips twist into a mocking smirk. “You’re filming this? Amateurs.” He snorts, then narrows his gaze at me.

“You’re being paid, so earn your keep and fix it,” Chatty snaps, waving a hand at the smoking camera. “Fix it. We need to execute her and send a message.”

The Hunter’s eyes narrow. “You think she’s a magic user?” He steps closer, his thigh brushing the chair.

I tense as he leans in, surveying me with cool interest. “A half-changed shifter and an untrained, baby technomancer, eh? I can taste the magic. Nicely done, love.” His fingers clamp my chin, tilting my face into the light. Then he raises his voice for the others, “I’ve seen the file. She’s far too young to be forty-seven. Turning shifter doesn’t change your face, so are you sure you have got the right woman?”

Chatty shrugs and hands over his phone. “Paul Emerson swore this was her.”

The Hunter holds the screen next to my face as though comparing antiques. “She looks nothing like that photo. I’m no expert on shifters, but they don’t alter eye colour, hair—none of that changes.” His voice sharpens. “So I will ask again, are you certain this is Mrs Emerson?”

Chatty squirms. “Paul said her appearance changed.”

“Sure he did,” the Hunter scoffs. “You’re taking a part-time nobody’s word for it?”

“She said her bodyguard ran off,” Chatty mutters.

“Did you see him run?” The Hunter folds his arms. “No? Then how do you know the guard didn’t stay behind?”

“She told us,” Chatty says weakly.

The Hunter’s expression hardens. “For all you know, this is some random shifter covering for Mrs Emerson. You kill her, film it, and she’s done nothing wrong…” His voice drops into a venomous hiss. “That’s murder. And guess what happens next? Every faction in the land will want our heads. Is that your goal?”

Nervous silence settles over the men.

The Hunter rips the tape from my mouth, making me wince. I flinch as it tears at my skin. “What’s your name, love?”

My heart hammers. To hell with it. “Lark Winters.”

“She’s lying,” Chatty snaps.

“Emerson or Winters?” The Hunter studies me with a mix of curiosity and mild irritation. “Who’s your mate?”

I hesitate, then say quietly, “The Alpha Prime.”

The Hunter groans and drags a hand down his face. “You idiots kidnapped the Alpha Prime’s mate and tried to broadcast her murder? Are you insane?”

“Well, technically—” one of them starts.

“Shut it!” The Hunter swings around to glare at Chatty. “Do you have any clue what you have done? You fuckwits have signed our death warrants. Harm her, and the Prime won’t just kill you—he will wipe out your entire bloodline. Granny, aunties, cousins—anyone with your DNA is toast, every last one. And guess what? He will be justified.”

Chatty bristles, his hands twitching near his weapon. “Paul Emerson said she?—”

“I don’t care what Paul Emerson said!” The Hunter snaps. He faces me, bowing his head. “Mrs Winters, accept my apologies for this… misunderstanding. Let her go.”

My pulse pounds as I look between them, every nerve screaming.

“We don’t need your help,” Chatty snarls.

The Hunter stands between me and Chatty, menace radiating from his stance. “You will release her now.”

There’s a click as Chatty raises his rifle. “No one tells me what to do. I can kill you more easily than I can kill her.”

The Hunter does not flinch. His tone drips with dark amusement. “Try me. Go on. But I promise you will regret it.”