The Shapeshifter's Bride

Chapter Seven

Sometime in the afternoon, Daisy realized Christian had vanished.

The revelation didn't strike her immediately—she'd been lost in the rhythm of library work, helping Mrs. Sullivan shelve leather-bound classics and process returns at the checkout counter. Book dust tickled her nose, the scent of aging paper and binding glue creating a cocoon of normality around her. But gradually, like water seeping through stone, awareness crept in: that particular silver-eyed vigilance no longer brushed against her consciousness.

Christian had a gift for disappearing in plain sight. For hours, he'd lounged in a worn armchair, paperback held in those dangerous hands, creating the illusion that literature was his sole purpose in life. The juxtaposition fascinated her—those lethal fingers delicately turning pages, predatory focus trained on printed words instead of potential threats.

This relaxed version of him was unexpectedly compelling. Since their first encounter, Christian had cycled through variations of menacing—from actively threatening to passively intimidating. Laid-back was an entirely new flavor, one that intrigued her more than she cared to admit. More disturbing was the realization that his absence left a physical void, as though someone had removed a layer of her clothing in winter. She'd grown accustomed to the peculiar comfort of his presence—a protective blanket draped around her shoulders, warm and secure against the chill of reality.

The electrical current that flowed between them had become familiar—intensifying to nearly painful when they touched, settling to a pleasant hum when separated by mere space. She felt it whenever he entered a room, a warm glow flooding her system like expensive whiskey. He functioned as more than buffer zone; he was living armor against the brutal aspects of her were-existence. Without him, vulnerability prickled across her skin like approaching storm.

His absence announced itself in another unmistakable way—the dreaded itch had returned, crawling beneath her skin with insect persistence. Another leopard lingered nearby. The sensation always worsened under full moon influence, transforming from mere irritation to something alive and malevolent, determined to separate flesh from bone with invisible claws. Christian's presence somehow tamed these symptoms, his energy creating interference patterns that disrupted the maddening sensation. Without him, the itch morphed into nearly unbearable torment.

Daisy abandoned her cart of children's books, slipping behind a tall shelf of encyclopedias. After confirming solitude with a quick glance, she pressed her back against rough-textured wall, biting down on her lower lip to trap the moan building in her throat. Rising to tiptoes, she rubbed her spine against unforgiving surface, replacing crawling itch with stinging friction. Blood beneath skin seemed to boil with relief—she no longer cared if she scraped herself raw; stopping the sensation had become her only priority.

Her heightened leopard hearing caught footsteps approaching before human ears could register the sound. She froze mid-scratch, smoothing rumpled clothing with shaking hands and tugging her blouse into place. One alternative remained for calming the invisible ants. With trembling fingers, she dug into her skirt pocket, extracting two tiny white pills—pharmaceutical salvation. Three would be ideal, four would bring sweet oblivion, but conservation had become necessary. Her supply diminished daily with no replacement in sight. Besides, this morning's episode had been embarrassing enough—and vodka had definitely been the wrong chaser. She popped the pills dry, tongue working against bitter taste. Christian might believe he'd confiscated her entire stash, but he'd failed to check beneath her mattress where emergency reserves lay hidden.

She ran fingers through disheveled hair, nostrils flaring to identify the approaching presence. White Diamonds perfume with medicinal undercurrent—Ben-Gay lingering beneath floral notes. Relief flooded her system. Only Mrs. Sullivan, harmless and human.

Since her encounter with the hyenas, paranoia had become her constant companion. Alec's Fort Knox security measures only intensified her suspicion rather than alleviating it. What invisible threat prompted such protection? Why maintain her isolation? The leopard population in the house was suspiciously sparse—only Pembry, Alfred and cousin Caleb occupying space that should have teemed with pack members seeking their Alpha's approval. The absence felt calculated rather than coincidental.

It didn't help that Alec and Christian operated behind veils of secrecy, sharing meaningful glances and truncated conversations that ceased when she entered rooms. Whatever phone call had pulled Christian away must have been significant—important enough to abandon his self-appointed guardian duties when he'd previously demonstrated near-religious dedication to the role.

"There you are, dear," Mrs. Sullivan's voice warmed the air between them.

The librarian embodied everything a grandmother should be—sixty-five years of gentle wisdom wrapped in pink cashmere and cultured pearls. Daisy sometimes imagined claiming her as substitute family, erasing memories of the Grand Dame Sawyer with her razor-edged criticisms and calculated cruelties. Daisy couldn't recall her paternal grandmother—who had uniquely ruled the clan during her lifetime—ever wearing anything soft or comforting, let alone baking cookies or knitting lopsided hats. The fearsome matriarch had focused exclusively on grooming Alec for leadership, rendering Daisy effectively invisible in the process.

Not that lingering bitterness occasionally flavored her thoughts or anything.

"I'm just about ready to set up for story time," Mrs. Sullivan continued, arthritis-gnarled fingers adjusting pearl earrings. "Would you like to help? I have juice boxes and cookies in the kitchen that need arranging. You're welcome to join us afterward for Cinderella."

Daisy stared, momentarily speechless. Humans protected their young with fierce instinct. Why would this woman willingly expose innocent children to someone like her? She could contaminate their fragile psyches with merely her presence. "You would let me sit with the kids?"

Mrs. Sullivan's laughter danced through the air, delicate hand patting Daisy's arm with grandmotherly affection. "I've known you since you were their age, Daisy Sawyer. You may have made unwise choices that led you down your current path, but I recognize the goodness beneath." She offered a conspiratorial wink. "I've had you hauling dusty books all day. If you were half the troublemaker those trashy tabloids claim, you'd have stormed out hours ago." Weathered fingers brushed Daisy's cheek with surprising tenderness. "To me, you'll always be that little girl who stayed until closing time reading C.S. Lewis and Anne McCaffrey."

Daisy swallowed unexpected emotion, choosing not to confess that Danielle Steele had actually occupied those hours, other volumes merely serving as camouflage. Or that library sanctuary had represented escape from the crushing weight of her father's power combined with her grandmother's suffocating presence. The woman's kindness sparked unfamiliar warmth in her chest—the urge to embrace her tempered only by fear of accidentally crushing fragile human bones.

"Alfred is outside, by the way," Mrs. Sullivan mentioned casually, adjusting her cardigan. "I put him in my office so he wouldn't frighten the children. Gentle soul, but rather intimidating in appearance."

Surprise flickered through Daisy that the librarian recognized her brother's massive factotum. Alfred seemed entirely out of place among literature. "How do you know him?"

"Small town, dear," Mrs. Sullivan smiled indulgently. "He visits weekly, borrowing impressive quantities of reading material."

The mental image of Alfred's enormous hands cradling delicate paperbacks—perhaps Danielle Steele's latest offering—sent shivers down Daisy's spine. "What the hell does he read?"

"Popular fiction, mostly. Though he's been known to appreciate poetry—Pablo Neruda and Matthew Arnold. Currently, I believe he's immersed in García Márquez's 'Love in the Time of Cholera.'"

Alfred's presence explained the creeping sensation along her spine, mercifully dulled by Percocet's chemical embrace. Alec must have dispatched him as Christian's replacement—guard dog substitution without consulting her wishes.

She made her way toward the storage room at the library's rear, navigating between shelves of unopened donation boxes awaiting classification. The small adjacent kitchen revealed a refrigerator containing a twelve-pack of fruit punch boxes, which she placed beside an aluminum tray of animal-shaped chocolate chip cookies wrapped in protective plastic.

"So, this is where they're hiding you," a smooth voice drawled behind her.

Daisy nearly choked on the stolen cookie halfway to her mouth, whirling to face the intruder. Shock registered that her usually reliable were-senses had failed to detect his approach. Caleb had always possessed this unsettling talent—the only one who could consistently bypass her awareness, even in childhood. Slick motherfucker.

"s**t, Cal, you scared me," she exhaled sharply, breaking off a piece of tiger-shaped cookie to offer her cousin, who accepted with theatrical appreciation.

"Good cookie. Very moist," he commented, brushing crumbs from manicured fingers. "Just dropped by to see if I could tempt you into hitting San Francisco with me. Record producer acquaintance is throwing something massive tonight—figured you might appreciate escaping the doldrums to kick it with your favorite cousin."

San Francisco had always claimed special place in Daisy's heart—vibrant streets and fog-shrouded architecture offering liberation from small-town constraints. Friends awaited her there, connections to a life where her name didn't automatically summon whispers and judgment. But reality asserted itself with depressing clarity: Alec would never permit such freedom. Strategic compliance seemed her only path toward eventual liberty—playing by rules until trust solidified enough to create breathing room. "I've got twenty-four-hour guard detail on my ass."

Caleb's derisive snort punctuated the air between them. "Like that's ever stopped you before. Remember our fifteen-year-old selves sneaking onto that Greyhound for the Sacramento rave?"

The memory surfaced with startling clarity—four-hour journey culminating in disappointment upon discovering their destination populated primarily by aging hippies chasing youthful nostalgia through chemical assistance. Terrible music, overcrowded venue, and ultimately, her father's inevitable appearance, dragging them home under Alec's disapproving surveillance.

"Those were the days, eh, cuz?" Caleb's smile held calculated nostalgia.

"Yeah," Daisy agreed halfheartedly, surprising herself with genuine disinterest in his San Francisco proposition. The evening's inevitable transformation loomed larger in her consciousness—full moon at peak illumination would force the Change she'd been avoiding, compelling her leopard form to emerge and hunt across Alec's property. "But I think I'll pass this time."

Something flickered across Caleb's features—too quick to identify before practiced joviality reasserted itself. "Your loss. Heard Billie Eilish and DJ Khaled might make appearances."

"Totally bummed to miss it," she manufactured regret with practiced ease. "But playing 'good sister' temporarily might convince Alec to ease up on the Gestapo tactics."

Golden eyebrow arched skeptically. "Never known Alec to relax his grip on anything."

Her brother's legendary obstinacy made arguing impossible. "But he is our Panthera Patron."

"That never stopped the Daisy Sawyer I knew before," Caleb challenged, studying her with unexpected intensity.

Irritation flared beneath her skin. People insisting on defining her future through past mistakes ranked among her particular hatreds. Current desires seemed remarkably simple—arrange cookies for children's story hour rather than rehash adolescent rebellion. Still, Caleb represented the only pack member who'd attempted genuine welcome since her return.

"Well, I have to get back to work," she offered weak excuse. "Rain check on drinks?"

"Yeah, sounds good," he accepted with visible disappointment shadowing his features.

"See you at home, Cal." She balanced cookie tray atop juice boxes, gesturing toward the door.

Her cousin nodded reluctantly. "Yep. See you at home."

Daisy rearranged the treats on her cart, creating visually appealing presentation. Satisfaction lasted only seconds before dizziness crashed through her system, knees dissolving beneath her weight. She clutched the doorframe desperately as invisible ice pick stabbed between her eyes, tearing involuntary cry from her throat. Palms pressed against eyelids, she slid helplessly to the floor.

Vision persisted despite tightly closed eyes—first blood-red haze flooding her consciousness, then narrowing tunnel pushing her perception inward. Distorted shapes formed, accompanied by sounds warped as though filtered through water. The tunnel transformed to conical structure, placing her at the wrong end, peering through metaphysical keyhole.

Wavering edges expanded, keyhole widening to reveal more comprehensive view. Strange certainty settled over her—somehow gazing through window into someone's life, accessing their very essence through mysterious connection.

A petite, dark-haired woman stood in sunny kitchen, preparing dinner with delicate precision. Warmth permeated the space—security and domesticity embodied in marble countertops and copper pots hanging from overhead rack. Violin concerto drifted through hidden speakers as she chopped vegetables destined for lamb stew—her husband's favorite meal.

When she turned toward gleaming stove, her heavily pregnant belly became visible beneath flowing top. Recognition flickered—Marylou Chen from high school. Former cheerleader whose genuine kindness had extended across social barriers, befriending outsiders and popular students with equal sincerity. Had they been friends? Memory refused to crystallize completely.

Why was she seeing Marylou?

"Miss Sawyer," gruff voice penetrated her vision. "You're okay, you're all right."

Eyelids remained leaden, but awareness registered being lifted from floor by powerful arms. Weakness prevented protest as forest scent enveloped her—loamed earth and rain-washed pine. "Alfred?" Words barely formed.

"Yes, child, it's me," deep voice confirmed. "Taking you to Mrs. Sullivan's office. There's a couch there."

"Okay," she managed weakly. Alfred's leopard energy registered differently—powerful but somehow tolerable, especially with opiates dampening her sensitivity.

He deposited her gently on office sofa, darkness descending as lights extinguished. She burrowed into cushions as heavy weight settled across her body—Alfred's leather jacket providing unexpected comfort. Sleep beckoned irresistibly, promising healing oblivion, but responsibility nagged. "Alfred, the cookies and juice boxes for the children..."

"I'll take care of them," his rumbling baritone reassured. "Sleep now, child. You need it. I'll be back soon."

Pressure in her skull gradually receded, allowing relaxation against corduroy embrace. Safety enveloped her in this unexpected sanctuary. Alfred represented childhood security—the giant who had checked closets and under beds for monsters, sometimes reading bedtime stories in thunderous voice that lulled her to sleep. Most importantly, he had shielded her from La Grande Dame Sans Merci when possible.

Two protectors now circled her existence, yet neither claimed primary loyalty to her personally. Alfred served the confrérie du léopard above all; Christian belonged to Alec. Two certainties remained: her brother considered her incapable of independence, and marriage arrangements loomed as strategic alliance rather than personal choice.

Daisy understood the threats facing were-leopards—wolf packs circling territorial boundaries, testing defenses, gradually encroaching on their hundred-eighty acres of legally-held land. Two centuries of Sawyer ownership meant nothing against animal hunger for expansion.

Through growing sleep-haze, Marylou Chen's image resurfaced in her consciousness. Years had passed since her last vision—pharmaceutical cocktails typically suppressing such abilities beneath chemical fog.

God, did it mean Marylou was in danger?

The thought followed her into uneasy dreams, pregnant woman's smiling face transforming to something more ominous beneath closed eyelids.