Bitten Shifter (The Bitten Chronicles #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Their cars block the driveway, so I grab a free space further down the street without a second thought. I finished the freelance project early; it’s mid-morning, and Paul isn’t expecting me home.

I bet they are watching a film.

They have always been such good friends. Lately, Paul has been helping Dove more around her house, taking on the heavier, more physical tasks. I’m so proud of him—proud of how generous and kind he is, helping my sister for me. He’s thoughtful like that.

I hope they have got popcorn.

As I step through the door, something shifts in the air. A feeling of unease curls in my stomach, and the cutesy tune I’m humming catches in my throat.

Music. Sexy music.

Clothes lie haphazardly scattered across the floor—his and hers.

Still, like the absolute numpty I am, I convince myself there must be a straightforward explanation because there’s always a logical explanation. Right?

Instincts, which I ignore, scream at me to leave. Get back in the car, Lark, drive away, and come back later at your usual time!

But no. I ignore that little voice of reason. I don’t even know why I go upstairs.

I… need to see, I guess—silly me.

The door to the bedroom is wide open. I frown and tilt my head, hoping what is happening before me will magically change. If I view the scene from a different angle, it might be less obscene.

Less real.

Dove is vigorously riding my husband on our marital bed as if she is trying to break that sucker off.

My hand trembles as I pull out my phone. It takes two attempts to fish it out of my pocket, and my breath catches as I hit record.

I wince at her over-the-top screams.

I’m not a perv. This isn’t about voyeurism. I need evidence.

Evidence of the end of my marriage. If I don’t record it, he will gaslight me later. He will tell me it didn’t happen—that I misunderstood or imagined it all.

He can’t.

I might have a soft heart, but I’m no weak-willed ninny.

I only manage to film a few more seconds. I can’t stand here any longer. I’m sure I’ve recorded enough to make my point. Any more of this, and I will have to bleach my eyeballs.

With the loud music covering my retreat, on leaden legs, I back up, turn and go downstairs. Instinctively, I head to the furthest room in the house without stepping outside: the kitchen.

As soon as I lay eyes on the sink, bile rushes up my throat. The porcelain is cold under my sweaty palms as I silently throw up.

When my stomach is empty, I wonder what to do now. I imagine sitting on the sofa, waiting for them to finish their little romp and come downstairs. I picture myself, vomit dripping from my lips and bile burning my tongue, trying to look dignified as I yell, “Surprise!” Or maybe go with a classic: “Did you kids have fun?”

What do other people do in this situation? Do they rant? Scream? Break things?

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, tuck loose strands of brown hair behind my ears with shaky fingers, and blink back tears.

My eyes fall to the drawer where I keep the knives.

Deep inside, I feel the urge to do something dramatic and bloody.

But that’s not me. I’m not that person.

I’ve always been the peacemaker.

The pacifier.

The doormat.

I’m a practical person.

I get socially anxious and fret about saying the wrong thing, second-guessing every word that comes out of my mouth. In every situation, I never quite know what to do with my hands—they are strange, floppy, awkward things.

And I’m happiest curled up on the sofa with a book or buried in lines of monotonous code at work.

I’ve had training—if I hurt them, I will be the one locked up.

I’m not made for prison.

I can’t touch them, even if I have every right to feel angry and betrayed. I can’t ruin my life.

What life?

Our twenty-seven-year marriage is gone. The wreckage sits heavy on my chest, weighing me down. I feel broken, sad, and so bloody stupid.

It’s ridiculous. What a waste.

What a waste of a lifetime spent with someone who never really loved me. Because if Paul loved me, he wouldn’t be upstairs screwing my sister.

When we met, he was twenty-six, and I was a fresh-faced nineteen. So young. So na?ve. And now? Now I’m a silly, middle-aged woman huddled in her kitchen while the two most important people in my life enjoy each other upstairs.

No, wait. Hold on.

I’m not even middle-aged, am I?

What is the average human lifespan these days? Eighty, if you are lucky? But last I checked, scientifically speaking, it’s closer to seventy-three—if you don’t end up a chew toy for a shifter or a vampire, that is. So, if you think about it, middle age is thirty-six and a half.

Thirty-six and a half.

Shit.

That’s so young. And by that measure, I’m eleven years past middle age. I’m already well into dipping my toes into being useless to society.

I never thought I’d be useless to him—or that my sister would be a better fit. What a cliché. My sister. Paul had to do this with my beautiful, gregarious older sister.

At least it isn’t a secretary—that I know of. I shake my head, my chin dropping as a pain-filled sigh rattles through my chest.

He is a weak-willed sisterfucker.

And Dove? She took the man I’d spent twenty-eight years of my life with… because she could.

After everything I’ve done for her. I’ve been her rock, made sacrifices, and there was nothing— nothing —I wouldn’t have done for my sister.

If she called me to help bury a body, I’d show up with a shovel and gloves, no questions asked. Dove? She wouldn’t ring for help if I were on fire. No, she’d warm her hands and complain about the smell of burning skin.

I loved them.

I trusted them.

What a mug I am.

I groan and bury my face in my hands. At least we never had kids. We were both selected for forced sterilisation as teenagers—a gift for the not-so-perfect specimens of the pure human population.

We were perfect together.

He was my person. I gave everything to our marriage. I would’ve done anything for Paul, the one I loved beyond measure. I’ve always been a do-or-die kind of girl. Loyal.

I’m done.

I’m so done.

A whining sound, full of pain, bubbles up from my chest. Even as I hear it, I can’t seem to stop—it’s the sound of a tortured dog.

There’s a thump upstairs, followed by laughter.

The horrid noise I’m making cuts off as my lips curl in disgust. I stare at the ceiling, my fingers flexing toward the knife drawer as though possessed.

I am not safe. Wow. That’s such a weird, honest thought. They aren’t safe with me here.

Now I understand why good people snap and go on a rampage. The crazy wants to burst out of my chest, clawing its way free like some alien creature.

I drag my hand away from the knife drawer again, the limb flopping to my thigh like dead weight.

I don’t know how this happened.

There were no signs. No hidden phone calls. No suspicious behaviour. Or maybe there were, but I was too blind to see them. Even if there had been, I wouldn’t have believed they could betray me like this.

My rose-coloured glasses don’t go this shade of messed up.

I don’t know how long it’s been going on. Maybe it started today, or it could’ve been years.

Do I even want to know?

Does it matter?

There’s no going back for me. Not now.

What do I do? What the heck do I do? I could wait right here and confront them when they come downstairs. Scream. Cry. Wail. Listen to their lies as they twist everything until I don’t know which way is up or down.

I could give Paul a chance to explain. But I already know what he will do. He will try to convince me to forgive him.

Forgiveness.

When I refuse, it will turn nasty. Paul won’t be able to help himself. The blame game will start, and somehow, all of this will end up being my fault. And then what?

Now that I’ve uncovered their affair, what if they decide to chuck me out?

I can almost hear Dove’s voice, dripping with faux sincerity: “We’re in love, Lark, and this is our house now.”

The thought hits me like a punch, and I rock back a step, slapping a hand over my mouth to stifle the manic cry clawing its way up my throat.

I’m expendable.

The realisation burns through my chest, sharp and unrelenting.

What if they don’t care? What if they have no regrets? My heart, my ego, my sense of self—none of it will survive if they end up together. If Dove takes over my life.

I stand there, staring into space, while my inner voice screams at me to leave. Run. Get out.

But I’m frozen.

All I know is that I cannot—will not—be here when they come downstairs.

What the heck do I do? I don’t want to be the cheated-on spouse. The sad, pathetic woman left behind. This is not my life. It can’t be. It can’t.

This is not my life!

Fate dealt me these cards through some cruel alignment of tiny circumstances—a perfect storm that led to me arriving home early. But you know what? I’m not bloody playing.

Fate can get stuffed.

I can’t just abandon my life and disappear without a word…

Can I?

It would be a knee-jerk reaction born from pain. Immature. Petty.

And yet…

I never want to see either of them again. The idea of walking away without saying a single thing is so appealing. To not stick around for the inevitable circus: the screaming matches, the endless back-and-forth, the splitting of lives and memories into neat little transactional pieces—the rigmarole of tearing each other apart.

Ghosting Paul will drive him mad.

He loves the sound of his own voice and loves getting the last word. Why should I give him closure?

He’d never expect me to vanish, to drop off the face of the earth. And by doing the unexpected, he will be forced to experience the full impact of what he has done without it being cushioned by our relationship slowly fading.

It’s an emotional bomb he isn’t expecting.

My sister? Oh, Dove will be in for a treat. An angry, frustrated Paul isn’t exactly attractive.

I don’t care what happens next. I only hope it’s torturous for both of them.

I gather my essential documents from the bottom kitchen drawer and head for the front door.

For the last time, I take in the home we built together—the life we built—now littered with their clothes scattered across the floor like rubbish.

What is left of our marriage? Lies, false memories, and stuff.

He can have it all—every last piece. Stuff can be replaced. Let Dove have my twenty-year-old knickers and my useless, cheating husband. If she wants Paul and my life so badly, she can have the entire package.

I grab my computer from the sofa, where I’d dumped it when I came home. Next to it is a client’s thank-you gift—a bag and a beautiful bouquet of lilies, carnations, roses, and baby’s breath.

My gaze lingers on the flowers.

Why shouldn’t I let them know I’ve been here?

A deranged smile twitches my lips as the idea takes hold. I pick up the flowers and tuck the gift bag under my arm. Inside is a handwritten thank-you card and a bottle of champagne.

Conscious that I’m running out of time, I pluck the heads off the roses with aggressive snaps of my fingers. A shame they aren’t red , I think, holding up the pink petals. But they will do.

I rip all the petals from the stems and scatter them at the bottom of the stairs, mingling them with the petals from the carnations. They form a winding path between the discarded clothing, leading toward the kitchen.

It’s petty. It’s theatrical. It’s perfect.

In the kitchen, I remove my engagement, wedding, and eternity rings and place them on the counter. Next, I add two long-stemmed glasses, the unopened bottle of champagne, the lilies, and a handful of baby’s breath.

I tilt my head and appraise my work. Not bad. I hope it freaks them out.

The arrangement is elegant. Subtle. It says everything without me needing to leave a note or explanation.

Paul’s a big boy. I’m sure he will figure it out.