I Rejected My Obsessive Werebeast novel Chapter 100

Chapter 100

Aurora’s POV

Sleep came in fragments that night.

Every time I drifted off, the email surfaced behind my eyelids The game has only just begun. Six words. No signature. No trace. Just the weight of them, sitting in my chest like a stone.

We’d shelved the nighttime reconnaissance plan for the old industrial district. Kane’s warning had sunk in–too soon after the hearing, too much attention on us. Moving in the dark right now would be exactly the kind of mistake Lucien’s people were hoping for.

Instead, we’d handle what was in front of us. The public work. The visible work. And let the Bureau’s tech team keep chasing the email’s origin through its maze of relay servers.

Monday morning, I was back at the office.

My boss called me in before I’d even settled at my desk. The project folder was already on his table–thick, heavy with tabs and dividers.

The Shifter Victim Relief and Resettlement Initiative. The assignment he’d promised me before the hearing.

He slid it across the desk.

“You know these survivors better than anyone after the warehouse case.” His expression was serious. “But the public scrutiny around this project is real. There are people online who’ve already decided you’re the villain.

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You need to be ready for that.”

Nook the folder. It was heavier than I expected–not just in paper, but in what it represented. Psychological support programmes. Employment placement. Shelter expansion research. Case management for dozens of traumatised shifters who’d been through things no one should survive.

It was a responsibility. And it was a chance.

I opened the folder right there. Flipped through the intake sheets, the victim profiles, the preliminary data.

And then I stopped.

Page fourteen. A preliminary registry of shifters still unaccounted for–the ones who’d vanished during transport, never logged at the warehouse, never found.

Their names were here. Partial information. Last known locations. Transport batch numbers.

My pulse quickened.

The relief project wasn’t just about helping the survivors we’d already found. It was a channel. A way to trace the ones we hadn’t.

I closed the folder carefully. Kept my face neutral.

“Thank you,” I said. “I won’t let you down.”

After work, I drove to the racing circuit to pick Silas up.

He was waiting by the track edge when I arrived. The flood wound on his back had scabbed over, but I could see the way he moved–careful, measured, every rotation of his shoulders slightly guarded. The injury still

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pulled at him.

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And there was something else. A tension in his jaw that hadn’t been there before.

Since the hearing, Jessica had escalated.

She’d used her position as circuit coordinator to make his life difficult. Premium test tracks reassigned to other drivers. Training slots/pushed to inconvenient hours. Subtle things, easy to dismiss on their own–but the pattern was deliberate.

Worse, she’d been talking. To colleagues. To sponsors. To anyone who’d listen. Spreading the narrative that Silas only had his position because of his bond with me. That his results were inflated. That he wasn’t genuinely qualified.

He’d stayed quiet about it. Didn’t want to stir things up. Didn’t want to add to my burden on top of the hearing and the case.

But the quiet was ending.

We walked out of the circuit gates together. The evening light was fading, casting long shadows across the pavement. His amber eyes were calm, but there was something firm behind them.

“I’m done letting Jessica walk over me.” His voice was even. No anger. Just certainty. “Every time I step back, she takes another step forward. This isn’t just about me. She’s attacking your reputation too–saying you pulled strings, saying I don’t deserve what I’ve earned.”

He looked at me.

“I need to push back. Not recklessly. But clearly.”

I reached for his hand. Laced my fingers through his.

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