Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Lark, what the heck are you doing? The thought cuts through me like ice water, jolting me out of my fury. My pulse stumbles, and shame quickly overtakes the anger. What was I thinking? Even among pure humans, direct eye contact like this can be considered aggressive.
Am I really trying to pick a fight with a shifter?
Suicidal?
I’m acting like a complete psycho.
I force myself to calm down. He has not done anything wrong. He can’t help being male, ridiculously tall, and absurdly handsome.
My lips quirk into a self-deprecating smile. He is probably used to clueless humans. The last thing I want is for him to think I’m rude—or worse, a bigot. The only thing I have left is work, and I can’t afford to mess this opportunity up by getting my head metaphorically—or literally—ripped off.
By now, he is standing before me, holding a hefty-looking envelope. Crap. I’ve missed my window to stand. If I do it now, we will be uncomfortably close. Instead, I stay seated and tilt my head up.
His nostrils flare and—wait—did he just sniff me?
I sit rigidly, pretending not to notice how deliberately he scents the air. Please, please let him be the courier and not some random guy who thinks sniffing humans in hotel lobbies is normal behaviour.
“Mrs Emerson,” he says, his voice low and formal.
I nod, relieved. “Yes, that’s me.” I keep my tone polite and professional. Since he is delivering documents, I mentally dub him Mr First Class . “Are you the courier for the Ministry?”
“Something like that.”
I wince internally. Not a courier, then. Great. Of course he is not, not in that suit. Probably some Ministry bigwig, and I’ve already managed to screw this up. Come on, Lark, try to have some semblance of professionalism.
“May I see some identification?” he asks.
“Yeah, sure.” Awkwardly, I lift my hips and dig into the deep pocket of the cheap jogging bottoms I picked up in Tesco. After some fumbling, I retrieve my ID and hand it to him.
Careful not to touch my fingers, he takes the plastic card with a precision that feels deliberate. He studies it for what feels like an eternity, his thumb brushing over my name in an almost absentminded way. His jaw tightens slightly before he flicks the card between his fingers and hands it back.
I accept it and, with a polite smile, also take the package he extends to me. My arms sag slightly under its unexpected weight, and I balance it on my knees. “Okay, well, thank you.”
He does not move.
I tilt my head and give him a small wave, encouraging him to move on like a lost lamb. “Thank you for coming and dropping this off.”
“No, Mrs Emerson,” he says, his tone patient but firm. “I must wait for you to review the documents and, if necessary, sign them.”
“Oh.” My eyebrows shoot up. “I thought it was just paperwork for me to look over.” I glance down at the package, and its heft suddenly feels more significant. “That’s… unconventional.”
I glance around, the awkwardness pressing in. Should I do this here in the middle of the lobby? It’s not like I can invite him up to my room. “It might take some time,” I warn, trying to gauge his reaction. “Would you like to take a seat?”
He scans the area briefly, then shakes his head. “No, I’m fine.” He settles into what I can only describe as parade rest, hands clasped behind his back, looking completely at ease.
“Right, okay.” I try not to dwell on his unnerving stillness. I tug at the hem of my cheap Primark jumper, adjust my posture, and do my best to focus. Flipping the package over, I notice the flap is sealed with a blob of dark red wax stamped with a wolf. Very fancy.
I hum softly and carefully break the seal without damaging the wax, then slide my fingers inside, wiggling the documents free.
As soon as I touch the paper, my fingertips tingle faintly. A prickle of nervous energy skates up my arms, and I can’t stop myself from licking my lips.
The contract is saturated with magic—so much so that I can feel it zapping through my bones. Magical paper. Of course it is.
The spell woven into it is likely analysing me already, its tendrils poking around in my head, peeling back my thoughts and intentions.
My secrets.
Not freaky at all.
This kind of thing tends to make people squirm. The paper mages behind this type of parchment have a reputation, and it isn’t a friendly one. If you have got skeletons in your cupboard, you don’t want to touch their paper.
I take a slow breath, reassuring myself. It shouldn’t be a problem. The magic isn’t strong enough to pick up on my magical abilities.
At least, I hope not.
I turn the first page, and a sharp sting shoots through my fingertips. “Ouch! Stop that,” I hiss, shaking the paper vigorously as though it will teach it a lesson. Bloody thing.
Mr First Class makes a slight muffled noise. When I glance up, his lips are pressed tightly together. His gaze is fixed on the doors outside, his face a perfect mask of polite indifference.
Oh no. He is going to think I’m not right in the head—who in their right mind talks to paperwork?
I spy red, embarrassed blotches blooming on my chest. Grimacing, I hunch over the document.
Apart from the creepy, finger-burning paper magic, everything seems in order. The role, however, is more military-adjacent than I’d expected, with a security focus that differs significantly from my usual work. A heaviness settles in my stomach as I reread the description.
Shifter Defence Digital
Defence Digital is part of Strategic Command and has a vital role within the Shifter Ministry in the age of information warfare.
This is important—high-stakes important. No wonder Mr First Class showed up instead of a regular courier. I blow out my cheeks, trying to shove down a sudden surge of doubt.
What am I getting myself into?
I skim the terms and conditions again, forcing myself to go slower this time. The eighteen-month timeframe is reasonable, the compensation is impressive, and the included apartment… well, the apartment is something else entirely.
I pause on the page detailing the accommodations and study the pictures. The Greenholm Ironworks is a beautifully restored historic site, originally built in 1790. The warm, golden brickwork and grand windows radiate charm. The complex includes detached and semi-detached homes, terraced houses, and luxurious apartments. There’s even an indoor community pool, gym, and spa.
A pool! The idea of lounging by the water sparks a smile, then I think about my hairy legs. Paul would have laughed and said I’d need a hedge trimmer to shave before daring to wear a swimming costume in public.
My smile dies as fast as it comes, a sharp pang striking my chest. The page crinkles under my grip, and I take a few steadying breaths.
It’s okay. I’m okay.
I smooth out the paper and force myself to focus on the apartment details. It looks… perfect. I double-check everything for hidden pitfalls but find nothing to make me hesitate.
Without giving myself time to overthink, I reach into my bag and pull out a faithful old Biro. The end is so chewed it’s a wonder it has not fallen apart, but it gets the job done. I sign my name with a decisive flourish.
Setting my copies aside, I tuck the signed documents back into the envelope and press it closed. Clearing my throat, I catch Mr First Class’s attention. His piercing blue eyes snap to mine, and for a moment, I feel as though he is weighing me on an unseen scale.
I push the envelope toward him and force a confident smile. “You will find everything’s in order,” I say, keeping my tone calm and professional. “Thank you for waiting. I appreciate your time.”
He takes the envelope with a single nod, his fingers brushing mine for the briefest moment. Then, just like that, he is back to his perfectly composed, slightly intimidating self.
“What did you do? Are you cheating on me?”
A woman’s voice echoes across the lobby, raw with disbelief. I glance up, startled, and spot the source immediately.
Her auburn hair gleams like a signal fire, and her pale face is a portrait of shock and fury. “With her? You did this with her? I can’t believe you!”
The horrified man, the object of her wrath, steps out of the lift. He looks as if he’s just been smacked in the face by reality. His panicked gaze darts to the blonde woman lingering behind him, then back to the redhead. He raises his hands in a futile display of innocence. “It’s not what it looks like!”
“Yeah, sure, buddy,” I mumble, sliding my signed documents into my laptop bag.
“It’s a business meeting!” he insists, his voice rising as he edges closer.
She lets out a bitter laugh. “A business meeting that lasted all night? Do I look stupid to you?” Her voice cracks, but she holds her ground, shaking her head like she’s trying to clear the betrayal from her mind. She takes a step back as though his presence physically repels her.
Desperate now, he lowers his voice and leans toward her. “Dayna, you’re making a scene. Let’s go home and talk about this. Please.”
“No!” she snaps, jerking away from him. Her finger jabs into his chest with each word. “You are a liar. A cheater. I saw the messages. I know everything.” She whirls to point at the blonde woman by the lift. “And you! You’re a whore!”
The blonde woman’s lips curl in a smirk. She steps forward, her hips swaying in a way that feels calculated, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her chin tilts up, the picture of smug confidence.
My stomach twists. It’s probably my own scars talking, but I despise her on sight.
“Dayna, stop,” the man growls, trying to grab her wrist again.
She yanks her arm away with a glare that could melt steel. “No. Do not touch me. And don’t come back home. I will have your bags ready for you to pick up. We’re done. I want a divorce.”
The lobby falls silent, save for the hum of the vending machines. People have stopped to stare; some whisper, while others pull out their phones to film. My hands grip my bag’s strap like it’s the only thing anchoring me.
“Where’s the damn hotel security?” I mutter, casting a look towards the reception desk. A staff member is on the phone, talking frantically.
Watching this unfold makes me feel sick. Is the entire world cheating? I fidget with the strap of my bag, torn between wanting to scream, “Leave him! Leave him!” and rushing over to hug the poor woman, telling her she will survive this—that it will hurt, but she will get through.
Even though I know that’s not always true.
The blonde wraps herself around the man’s arm, pressing her body to his. Her voice turns syrupy and mocking. “Darling, what’s all this about? Who’s this woman?”
Dayna’s expression is pure rage. “I’m his wife. ”
The blonde lets out a theatrical gasp, her hand fluttering to her chest. “Oh, the ex-wife. The mad one, right?”
“Is that what you told her?” Dayna’s voice trembles with rage and heartbreak. “That I’m crazy? What about our kids? Are they crazy too?” Her face crumples as reality crushes her, and her voice drops to a whisper. “Oh God, what am I going to tell the girls?”
Kids. Oh no. My chest aches for her, for them, for everything they are about to go through.
“Kids?” The blonde smirks, her tone laced with mockery.
She knows. She bloody well knows, and it only cements how much I hate people.
“Yes,” Dayna snaps. “Our three children. Three little girls. We have been married for ten years—happily, I thought. But I guess now I’m your ex.” A sad laugh cuts through the air like a blade. “Fine. You can have him. She can have you.” She turns sharply, ready to leave.
But the blonde chuckles, low and mean. “You’re right. She is mad. Come on, darling, let’s go back to bed.”
“Shut up, Jennifer,” the man growls, trying to shake her off.
The redhead freezes mid-step, then spins back, her eyes brimming with tears and fury. Anger radiates off her like heat from a bonfire. “ Let’s go back to bed, ” she snarls, venom dripping from every word.
Uh oh.
Her trembling hand dives into her coat pocket and pulls out a sleek, six-inch wand of polished dark wood. My stomach drops.
She’s a mage.
Oh no.
Jennifer also whips out a wand.
Foreign words tumble from Dayna’s lips, sharp and guttural. The incantation crescendos with a flick of her wrist, and a thunderous crack splits the air.
BOOM.
The pressure in the lobby shifts violently, as if the atmosphere has imploded. Pain explodes in my ears, so intense I fear they are bleeding. Behind her, the hotel’s glass doors and the floor-to-ceiling windows shatter in an instant, raining glittering shards across the pavement and car park.
The spell’s shockwave sends everything loose flying. A rogue suitcase hurtles toward my head; I barely have time to gasp and throw my arms up.
Before it makes contact, a blue blur fills my vision.
Mr First Class moves faster than I can process, intercepting the impact of the luggage with his shoulder like it weighs nothing. Without missing a beat, he yanks a cushion from the sofa and deflects an errant spell. The cushion explodes into a cloud of stuffing and shredded fabric.
Then I’m airborne.
He scoops me up like I weigh nothing, dragging me over the back of the chair, my feet scraping against it. My back slams against the nearby column, and he pins me there, shielding me with his body.
His arms are steel bands as he tucks my head against his chest, muffling the chaos around us. His suit is soft against my cheek, and he smells clean and expensive—like cedarwood and leather. Even so, I’m trembling. The air around us plummets at least ten degrees, biting through my clothes as the ozone tang of wild magic saturates the hotel.
Another explosion erupts, this one even closer. I flinch when the fake plant beside us disintegrates in a shower of pottery shards, pelting my calves.
A heavy hand strokes my hair. “It’s okay,” Mr First Class murmurs, his voice calm and steady. “I’ve got you. My security team is on the way.”
His words barely register, drowned out by the chaos. Sparks fly as one of the vending machines takes a direct hit. It sputters in protest, spewing cans, which skitter, bounce and burst, drenching the floor—and our feet—in sticky liquid.
For a fleeting moment, silence falls. I risk a peek from the safety of his arms, spotting the two women shrieking and clawing at each other like feral cats. Security guards finally rush in and wrestle the two mages apart.
I exhale shakily, my heart pounding. My eyes follow the redhead as she’s dragged away; she looks devastated, her face pale and blotchy with tears.
I hope she will be okay.
The shifter’s eyes meet mine, and for a heartbeat, the chaos around us fades. It’s unsettling, this electric sense of connection, as though he sees something hidden inside me—something I never knew existed, something Paul never tried to uncover.
Then, almost reluctantly, he lets me go. His severe expression snaps back into place, leaving me feeling both exposed and oddly small. Without breaking eye contact, he presses his hands against the wall above my head, does a clean, almost graceful push-up away from me, and takes a measured step back. His gaze sweeps over me, appraising.
Whatever test I’m apparently taking, I must pass, because he nods.
Gosh, he really is beautiful. It’s not fair.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice wavering a little. I shuffle past him, brushing dust from my sleeves. “I hope your suit is all right.”
He does not respond, his attention returning to the destroyed lobby. Spotting my computer still perched on the sofa, I hurry over. Plaster, dust, and shimmering bits of glass cling to it. I swipe at the mess with my sleeve, but the debris sticks. I will have to get a wet cloth.
As I fumble, I sense him move closer.
“If you collect your things, we can depart.”
“Pardon?” I blink up at him, thrown by the sudden declaration. “Depart? Why are we going anywhere?”
“You can’t stay here, Mrs Emerson. It isn’t safe.”
“It’s perfectly saf—” I trail off, taking in the wreckage around us. Shattered glass, twisted metal, and toppled furniture. The sharp smell of ozone still lingers. Oh no, he’s right. My voice drops to a whisper. “I… I haven’t got anywhere else to go.”
He studies me for a long moment, his jaw tightening slightly, then speaks with crisp efficiency. “I will arrange everything while you collect your belongings from your room. I will also handle your checkout.” He adjusts his cuffs with practised finesse and strides off to the reception desk.
He does not bother waiting for my reply.
I stare after him, my mouth hanging open. “Wow. Things are moving fast. Way too fast.”
For a brief second, I consider chasing after him to protest, or at least to ask questions, but I hesitate. The truth is, there’s no point arguing.
With a resigned sigh, I sling my bag over my shoulder and hustle toward the stairs, avoiding the smoking wreck of the lift. I guess this is it—my new life, my new adventure.
Ready or not, it’s starting now.