Chapter 5
Chapter Five
It takes less than five minutes to clear out my hotel room, motivated, of course, by the newly appointed blond bodyguard who is shadowing my every move. The shifter waits stoically outside my door as I pack, and now he follows me like a silent sentry.
I frown at his looming presence. He is massive, as though carved from granite and then dressed in an expensive suit. His broad shoulders practically fill the doorway, and his blond hair is cropped short, giving him a sharp, no-nonsense look. His green eyes sweep the room with the precision of someone who’s used to keeping others safe—or taking them down.
All of this feels… excessive.
Sure, this is a government job, but I’m not exactly a rock star in my field. I’m competent, yes, but I’ve gone out of my way not to stand out. Maybe this is some over-the-top shifter security protocol. Or perhaps they are not protecting me at all—maybe they are making sure I’m not a spy or a troublemaker.
Fine by me, as long as they don’t hurt me. I just need to get through the sector border, and then they will no longer be my problem. I can slip into obscurity among all the other humans working for the Ministry.
The blond guard escorts me outside. Mr First Class is on the phone, pacing as though he owns the pavement. He has not noticed me yet, so I hesitate. I’m not sure what the protocol is when he is on the phone and a half-dozen shifter guards are scattered around. Do I walk up? Wait for instructions? Risk being tackled to the ground if I make a sudden move?
I decide to stand still and stare at the horizon. There’s a curious comfort in watching the world stretch endlessly, unmoved by my personal drama.
If there’s one thing I do know, it’s that I’m done playing the mousy wife. Surrounded by these shifters—literal predators—I need to find that fire buried deep inside.
Mr First Class tucks his phone into his jacket, his sharp blue eyes snapping to me. He takes in my plastic bags and then scans behind me. “Is that everything?” he asks, his tone laced with disbelief.
The man is observant— too observant. His eyes flick briefly to my bare ring finger, the pale band of skin betraying what used to be there. I lift the bags higher, a pathetic shield against his penetrating stare. “Yep, this is everything. I will get more once I’m settled.”
As soon as I say it, a knot of worry twists in my stomach. Do they even have shops in the Enterprise Zone? The shifters are so secretive—who knows?
He grunts, apparently unimpressed, and waves a hand. A sleek, dark grey car pulls up to the kerb as if conjured by his command. Without a word, he strides to the back door, opens it, and gestures for me to get inside.
I blink at him. “Oh, no, thank you. I’ve got my car. I will follow you.” I nod towards my Fiat 500 parked a few spaces away. I can drive myself and would rather not get into a car with a group of strangers.
His lips press into a hard line. “That won’t be necessary. You will need a border escort, and your car isn’t registered.”
My jaw drops. “Not registered? What do you think I am—a delinquent? Of course it’s registered,” I sputter, indignant.
His eyes narrow. “Not with us. Your car is only registered for use within the other sectors. Mrs Emerson, you will be living and working in our Enterprise Zone. We have rules, and private vehicles are prohibited for the general public.”
I mentally groan, but I force a polite nod. “Of course. I’m sorry—I didn’t realise.”
Behind him, the big blond bodyguard sneers, as if my car offence is the most hilarious thing he’s heard all day.
A flush of embarrassment creeps up my neck. I can’t help but second-guess every decision that brought me here. Signing those documents felt like the right move, but now I’m standing here, stripped of basic freedoms, wondering if I’ve made a colossal mistake.
What was I thinking? I don’t know the rules, I don’t know these people—and I definitely don’t know what the heck I’m doing.
But then I remember why I’m here—to get out of the Human Sector and start over.
Mr First Class extends his hand, palm up, an unmistakable demand. “Your keys.”
I clutch my bags tighter. “What are you going to do with my car?”
“It will be safely stored until you return to this side of the border. Don’t worry,” he says, in a calm, soothing tone, as though talking to a rather testy toddler. His hand remains outstretched. “Everything you need will be within walking distance, and deliveries will bring your shopping straight to your door. You won’t miss it.”
I sigh, letting the tension escape in a long exhale, and switch my plastic bags to my other hand, the rustle of plastic loud against the tense silence. “Okay, thank you.” I dig out my keys, staring at them for a moment before reluctantly handing them over. Please don’t let this be a mistake.
His lips twitch, barely hiding a smile. Then, with the same smooth gesture, he waves me toward the waiting car. “Thank you, Mrs Emerson. Please, get in.”
Each time he calls me Mrs Emerson , I feel a tiny piece of my soul wither. I awkwardly adjust the straps of my bag. “If we’re going to be spending time in each other’s company, could you maybe… call me Lark?” I try to keep my tone neutral, but there’s a thread of desperation I can’t quite mask.
Those pale blue eyes meet mine again, assessing me. At last, the corners of his mouth lift in the faintest smile.
“Okay, Lark.”
“And you are?” The words spill out before I can stop them. I can’t keep calling him Mr First Class in my head—it’s bound to slip out at the worst moment.
“Merrick.” The name drops from his mouth like it’s being pried out with a crowbar.
Merrick. Huh. “It’s nice to meet you, Merrick.”
He huffs, takes my plastic bags, and hands them off to another shifter, who stows them in the car’s boot. I’m glad I hid my dirty underwear at the bottom.
Clutching my laptop bag like a lifeline, I nod and manoeuvre into the backseat. The big blond bodyguard takes the front passenger seat, while another shifter slides into the driver’s position.
I glance around at the suited, silent men surrounding me and the car, wondering where the heck they were when the mages were tearing up the hotel lobby. Nothing like a group of suited and booted shifters to scare you straight.
I look back at Merrick, expecting him to join us, but he does not move. Instead, he stands there on the kerb, his expression unreadable, as if he is holding the weight of the world on his broad shoulders.
“Good luck, Mrs Emerson,” he says, his voice steady and low.
I clear my throat and give him a playful glare.
“Lark,” he corrects himself with a small, almost reluctant smile.
Then, in one sharp motion, he slams the car door and steps back.
I stare out the window at Merrick’s retreating figure. He doesn’t offer a wave; he simply lifts his phone to his ear and marches off with that no-nonsense stride. And just like that, he is gone.
Why does that hurt? I don’t even know him.
I will have to unpack that later—this sudden clinginess towards a stranger.
Since the ‘incident,’ I’ve tried to self-medicate and fix my broken heart with chocolate and sugar, hoping to kick-start some dopamine and happy hormones into my bloodstream. Nothing has prepared me for this confusing blend of excitement and danger in his presence.
I’m forty-seven years old. My idea of danger is faulty wiring at work, and I’ve gone out of my way to avoid anything that makes my heart skip a beat. Yet for a moment—just one—I forgot about the shitshow of my life.
I snap my seat belt into place as the car pulls away. The two men in the front carry on their quiet conversation, ignoring me completely. My Fiat sits abandoned in the hotel car park as we merge onto the motorway. I try not to look back at that piece of my old life, disappearing in the rearview mirror.
The border looms ahead.
It’s difficult to describe the magic-infused monstrosity of concrete. The wall’s surface is smooth and unbroken, making me feel like an ant. It stretches to the left and right as far as I can see, rising so high it vanishes into the grey haze above, blocking the sunlight and casting everything in shadow.
We keep driving, the motorway curving to the right. Twenty minutes later, we take an exit ramp, where a massive sign looms overhead:
Warning: you are approaching shifter territory. Turn back if unauthorised.
Below it, smaller signs add: prepare documents for inspection. Strictly no entry without prior approval.
I frown and glance at the paperwork sticking out of my bag. I’ve got my job contract, but I don’t have any official-looking forms—no visas, permits, or whatever else might be required to cross into shifter territory. Surely Merrick would’ve made sure these guys have everything in order?
Still, the uncertainty nags me. I’m not the kind of person who likes to wing it. I prefer knowing what is coming and being prepared for every possible scenario. Right now, I feel as unprepared as I’ve ever been, and the looming wall ahead does not help.
I tap my fingers, trying to settle the anxiety buzzing in my chest. Five minutes. That’s all I would’ve needed to get my head straight. But no one asked, and here I am, hurtling toward the unknown with no time to catch my breath.
Ahead, a series of booths are set up like drive-thru windows—without the yummy burger at the end—each made of dull concrete and metal. A few cars are lined up in front of them. We inch forward, join the queue, wait for about five minutes, and then it’s our turn.
The guard’s window is small, barely large enough for the interaction. Because of the border’s towering shadow, overhead lights cast a harsh white glare on everything. Behind the booths are rows of parking bays marked by faded yellow lines. Each bay has a number painted on the ground, and more signs direct drivers where to park and wait for further instructions.
A guard leans out of the window, hardly glancing at our driver. His eyes are dull and bored—just another car, another person he will forget in seconds.
“Documents?” he drones.
The driver hands over a stack of papers. The guard looks at everyone in the car and scowls when he sees me.
The human.
Then he waves us on, directing us to parking bay number three.
We pull into the assigned spot, and the driver kills the engine. Turning to me, he says, “Mrs Emerson, a member of border personnel will need to speak with you to confirm everything’s in order. You must answer their questions truthfully, and we will be on our way in no time.” He notices my apprehension and softens his tone. “It’s fine; the Ministry has all your pre-approved documents.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
Gosh, this is awful. What the heck am I doing?