Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Surely a little spit from a shifter isn’t enough to trigger a change at the DNA level. That can’t be how humans turn—there’s supposed to be a ceremony, magic, all sorts of steps. It can’t be as simple as a bite. No, it does not make sense that one bite could flip a switch and cause this much change.
Humans don’t just turn furry overnight.
The only other possibility is that the wizard’s house triggered something inside me—or used powerful magic to save my life—and this transformation has nothing to do with the bite. Maybe it’s just my imagination running wild, a trick of the mind.
I stare at the mirror.
That—right there—is not my imagination.
I run my hands over my hips, searching for the comforting soft roll I’d always convinced myself was necessary cushioning. It’s gone. I’m slimmer, my figure more proportionate—if that makes sense. My once long legs and short torso now seem balanced. There’s more space between my hips and ribs, almost as if my body’s been rearranged and I’ve been stretched out.
“This is… all so confusing.”
My eyes aren’t their warm, familiar brown anymore. Dark silver stares back, framed by thick lashes. Even if the expression is a tad feral, they are not glowing—at least, not as far as I can tell. Then again, perhaps you can’t tell when you are looking at yourself?
My face is mine, but it’s not. I’ve never looked like this, even on my best day. My nose is perfectly straight, a little narrower than before. My eyes are slightly wider apart, and my cheekbones… they are so defined.
I touch them. In the mirror, I see my skin pucker. I can feel my thumbs digging in.
It’s real, not some elaborate prank.
My jaw is almost square but still feminine, and my hair is darker, triple its original thickness and weight. No wonder I was struggling with it.
I don’t just look different; I look like someone else entirely—someone from another time. My great-grandmother’s face stares back at me—her jaw, her nose, even those dark, intense eyes. The silver colour? That’s new. It’s as if my DNA got thrown into a cosmic blender, and the universe pulled out the best bits of my lineage to create this.
I open my mouth wide, shove trembling fingers inside, and prod teeth that are now perfectly straight, smooth, and blindingly white. My tongue and fingers search out the little bumps inside my lips and cheeks—remnants of years of absentminded biting.
Gone.
I can’t even find the tiny scar between my eyes from when one of the twins at school threw a rock at me.
It’s gone.
All of it is gone.
Every freckle, every blemish—erased. Apart from the white wolf’s bites and claw marks, my skin is flawless. Do shifters have perfect skin? I can’t recall. I never cared enough to check.
It’s as though I’ve been… soul-snatched, my essence poured into this stranger’s body. I can’t decide if it’s amazing or utterly horrifying.
Horrifying, I think. I liked being me. I enjoyed being forty-seven.
Now I look barely out of my teens.
Who in their right mind wants to be a teenager again? Living in that chaos once was more than enough. Not again. Please, not again. This—this is my worst nightmare. Sure, some women would kill to wake up younger, more vibrant, more perfect than ever before.
But me? I feel like I’ve been flung into a waking nightmare.
As you age, you fade into the background, and with that comes a fragile sense of safety, even if it’s an illusion. I liked my face the way it was—familiar, lived-in. I wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous. Not perfect, not stunning, but fine. It was mine.
This face, though—wide eyes, absurdly full lips. It’s as if magic took the golden ratio as a personal dare and decided to show off. I don’t want this. I don’t want to be this person, to appear twenty-plus years younger, to be young again.
Everyone says youth and beauty are gifts, but to me, beauty is a trap.
The landline starts ringing again, relentlessly, followed by the mobile. Whoever’s calling isn’t giving up; they are seriously determined. The noise cuts through my thoughts, grounding me in the present. Grateful there are no more mirrors in the rest of the apartment, I slam the bathroom door behind me, shutting out my reflection.
I grab the mobile off the counter. The screen flashes number withheld —a lump forms in my throat. I hate answering these kinds of calls, but I press the button anyway.
“Hello?”
“Mrs Emerson, where have you been?” growls a familiar voice.
Merrick.
How on earth do I recognise his voice? Goosebumps erupt along my arms. “Oh, hi. Have you got a parcel for me?”
“Answer the question. Where have you been? It’s been two days.”
“Two days?” I squeak, yanking the phone away to check the date. Oh crap. He is right—it has been two days. I suppose rearranging your face and body takes time. Clearing my throat, I try to sound casual. “Well, you see, I got bitten, and?—”
“I know you got bitten. I was there when you bled all over the place.”
My heart skips a beat. So, I was right. He was the one fighting the white wolf.
“Thank you?—”
“Are you okay? Where have you been? There’ve been no reports at the medical centre of your admission. How are you still alive? How did you heal yourself, Mrs Emerson?”
I clamp my mouth shut, panic bubbling in my chest. How am I supposed to explain this?
“Is there some magic you brought through the sector border we’re unaware of?” he presses.
“No,” I mumble, my voice small. “No, the, you see—” I stop. Nothing I say is going to sound sane.
“Your blood trail ends at the wizard’s house.”
Anger flares, and I snarl, “Oh, if you already know the answer, why bother asking?” I fling my free hand up and pace the kitchen like a caged animal.
“I wanted to see if you were going to lie.”
“You didn’t give me a chance!” I snap, then, quieter, “I’m not going to lie.”
Not that I could, given the evidence written all over my face. How exactly do I answer the door to greet him like this? With a bag over my head and call it a new fashion trend?
His growl reverberates through the phone, and something inside me stirs. I glance at my arm, almost expecting to see fur sprouting through my skin. Whatever’s happening to me isn’t just on the surface. It’s deeper. It’s much more than how I look.
He is still talking—ranting, really—but my head is buzzing, and I’ve completely tuned him out. “Merrick, I’m sorry,” I cut in. “I’m not feeling well. I really need to go back to bed.”
“Lark, did you at least get medical attention?”
“Yes. About that…” My words falter. How do I explain?
“I’m coming to your apartment,” he declares.
“No, no, no, no, no, no,” I squeak, then fake a loud, exaggerated yawn. “I, um, like I said, I’m not feeling well. And, um, I’m really tired. I need some rest.”
“You are refusing to see me?” His tone is incredulous, like no one’s ever dared tell him no before.
“Please, just give me a couple of days. I will call the Ministry to explain everything, so no one gets into trouble. Is Sophie okay? I put her in the?—”
“She is fine,” he snaps, cutting me off. “She told me you rescued her, then hid her in your hiding spot while you took on armed terrorists with a dart gun. You could have been killed.”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “I mean, I’m sort of fine. I will be okay.”
Not lying to him is quickly becoming a full-blown challenge.
“You are human and easily damaged. What you did was a mistake,” he growls. “I will give you a day, and then I’m coming for you.”
Well, that’s not ominous at all.
“Okay. All right. Um, do I need to call the Ministry, or?—?”
“The Ministry is aware,” he says curtly. Then he hangs up. No goodbye, no closing words—just silence.
Ooh, he was mad. I stare at the phone, then drop it onto the counter and sink into a kitchen chair, my head in my hands.
What the heck am I going to do?
It’s not like I can pack a bag and leave. Every piece of identification shows my old face—my real face, my actual age. No one will believe I’m the same person.
I can’t run. I can’t hide.
No. I need to woman up, avoid mirrors, and get used to this new normal. I’ve never been one to obsess over my reflection anyway. As long as there’s nothing in my teeth, I’m good. It is what it is, and I have to deal with this. This… this face? It’s just a surface, a facade. It’s not who I am.
What people see does not reflect the mess happening inside. I’m still me, right? Just… wrapped differently. I can moan and cry all I want, but like the end of my marriage, it won’t change a bloody thing.
This isn’t something I can escape. The thought hits me. Shifters are dangerous.
What if this does not stop at my face? What if I turn into something else?
I feel some ‘thing’ within me. There’s no guarantee I will become a wolf—or anything remotely manageable.
And a wolf? A wolf isn’t a puppy.
I close my eyes, and the memory crashes in, swift and brutal. The sharp teeth sinking into my arm, the sheer weight of the wolf pinning me down, the sickening grind of bones under its bite.
“Oh no,” I whisper, clutching my arm as if I can still feel the phantom pain. My stomach lurches; I slap a hand over my mouth as bile rises in my throat. I can’t tell if I’m going to vomit or pass out.
Inside me, something whines—a soft, pitiful sound.
A keening moan escapes my lips, high-pitched and panicked. I slide to the floor, back against the kitchen cupboards, trembling.
I should’ve told Merrick to come immediately. I should’ve begged him to stay on the phone.
I’m an idiot. A bloody fool.
My breathing turns shallow, my chest heaving in quick, panicked bursts. What will happen to me? What are they going to do? Unregulated shifters are a threat.
They will kill me.
They are going to bloody kill me for being an unsanctioned shifter. I’m as good as dead.