Chapter 3
Doug
F ucking Bear.
I know he’s home. His car’s in the lot. His lights are on. And I can practically hear him growling all the way on the sidewalk from his fucking reinforced penthouse fortress.
Still no answer.
I jab the buzzer again like my life depends on it because, well , it kinda does right now.
I immediately swat at yet another hornet trying to make sweet, painful love to my earlobe.
That makes seventeen?
No, eighteen.
Eighteen homicidal little bastards that followed me all the way from the damn park.
Look, was getting stung half to death while butt naked during my nightly run the way I envisioned spending my Friday night?
No. No, it fucking wasn’t.
Shifting in the city was never easy. But it was necessary.
It was supposed to be stress relief for my kind.
Stretch the legs.
Clear the head.
Not Welcome to Nature’s Sadism Hour: featuring Doug the Unlucky Lone Wolf.
I thought it was a mere coincidence the couple of buzzers floating around my head while I shifted back from my Wolf form.
But it only got worse.
Dragging on my jeans quickly, though awkwardly, thanks to all the angry red welts, I checked my phone only to find a slew of texts from Esmerelda the Cuckolded .
You know. The Witch who hired me.
To catch her cheating husband.
Which I did.
Flawlessly, I might add.
Apparently, she wasn’t a fan of the truth.
Also, wait—can a Witch even be cuckolded?
Isn't that like a dude thing?
Whatever. Not the point.
The point is, she’s pissed.
And who does she take it out on? Me.
Not the cheating husband.
Not the sparkly eyed sidepiece.
Nope.
Her ire is aimed squarely at Doug.
Because clearly, I’m the villain here.
Before I can spiral deeper, Horace’s gravel-thick voice finally crackles through the intercom, cutting through my panic and bug-swatting like a grizzly-shaped buzzkill.
“ What do you want? ”
He sounds exactly as thrilled as I feel.
“Took you long enough!” I snap, ducking as a hornet tries to kamikaze my nose.
“ Fuck off, Wolf. ”
Rude.
“You gotta let me in, Horace. Come on, I’m being attacked here!”
“ Attacked? By what? ” he deadpans.
“Is that really important right now?!” I yelp, doing a wild dance that probably looks like a bad TikTok challenge for supernatural pest control.
“My skin is practically melting, dude!”
I’m itchy, I’m welted, and I’m ninety percent sure these aren’t regular hornets.
They have purpose.
Like tiny hitmen hired by a vengeful Witch who didn’t appreciate photographic proof of her husband’s afternoon delight.
By some miracle, or maybe just Carina’s good influence, Horace eventually buzzes me up.
Ten minutes later, I’m standing in his living room— post emergency shower —wrapped in one of his giant robes that smells faintly like Bear and judgment.
Carina, bless her patient heart, hands me a mug of chamomile like I haven’t just ruined their cozy Friday night.
“Gosh, Doug. You look awful,” she says sweetly, concern knitting her brow.
Nice lady. Way too good for the walking forest fire she mated.
Horace grunts from the couch.
Carina gives him a scolding look, which somehow morphs into a fond smile as she presses a kiss to his cheek and snuggles in next to him, honey bun in hand.
Ugh. Lucky bastard.
Meanwhile, I’m single, stung to hell, and possibly cursed.
“So, what did you do? Pee on their hive or something?” Horace asks, smirking like he thinks he’s hilarious.
“Of course not. I have standards, thank you very much.”
I gesture helplessly to my welt-covered arms.
“I was just running. You know. Healthy lone Wolf habits. Then boom! Hornet Hell: Doug Edition . And I am telling you. These things aren’t normal. They’re like weaponized . Probably spelled up the wazoo.”
Horace gives me that look. The one that says you are the author of your own misfortune .
“Piss anyone off lately?”
“Seriously? That’s your question?” I sputter.
Then I sigh, because yeah. Yeah, I totally did.
“I’m a PI, man. Making people mad is literally my job.”
Horace narrows his eyes. “You can tell us everything or get the fuck out.”
So much for the Grizzly growing a heart. Sheesh.
“Fine!” I huff, scratching miserably at a welt behind my ear. “I took a job. For a Witch. She wanted dirt on her scumbag husband. I got it. And now, this .”
I gesture dramatically to my very unfortunate existence.
Horace groans like he’s aged five years from listening to me.
“So you took a spouse snooping job. Brilliant.”
“I prefer domestic investigation,” I grumble.
Carina, who’s been quietly sipping tea and eyeing me like I’m an idiot (fair), finally chimes in.
“Wait. What’s a spouse snooping job?”
Horace snorts. “Genius here got hired to spy on a Witch’s man. Caught him cheating. And now she’s magically punishing him.”
He jerks a thumb at me.
“Except ‘him’ is actually Doug, because why take it out on the dirtbag husband when you can hex the messenger?” Horace grins as he explains.
I think the fucker is enjoying my pain.
Carina gasps, peeking out the window.
Horace and I both turn our heads in the same direction, you know, cause curiosity and shit.
“Oh my God, Horace! There’s still a swarm of them out there. We can’t send him out to get stung to death,” she says, clearly the smart one in the relationship.
“Thank you, Carina,” I say, clutching my mug like it’s holy.
Horace curses under his breath.
“Doug, you dumbass.”
“Not my fault!” I shout, clutching my probably cursed tea like it’s the last life raft on the S.S. Bad Decisions .
But even as the words leave my mouth, they feel a little flimsy.
A little not entirely true.
Okay.
So, maybe it’s slightly my fault.
A smidge.
Like, maybe I accidentally poked the Witch-shaped beehive and now I’m paying for it in stingy installments.
Whatever.
I’m a PI, not a priest.
I don’t do confessionals.
I do stakeouts, zoom lenses, and occasionally catching married dudes with wandering wands.
Moral codes? Please.
If I had those, I wouldn’t be photographing a Witch’s hubby with his mistress’ ass mid-squeeze.
Still, mental note for future Doug: Add a no hex clause to all Witch-related contracts.
Right between no clients who pay in exposure and no cases involving haunted dolls after midnight —do not ask.
Horace, ever the charitable Grizzly, finally relents with a sigh that probably registers on the Richter scale.
“Fine. Stay the night. Spare room’s over there.”
He gets rewarded with a kiss from Carina, which he takes like it’s no big deal while I, from my itchy, welted perch on the couch, practically wilt from secondhand yearning.
Something inside me twinges.
Jealousy?
Envy?
Deep-seated dread mixed with the faint whiff of calamine lotion?
Whatever it is, it’s green, ugly, and sitting heavy on my shoulder.
He’s all like, “ Oh hey, Doug, remember how single you are? Let’s talk about that. ”
Not because I want Carina. No offense—she’s lovely, but she’s also very much the Grizzly’s girl and I enjoy having all my limbs intact.
But I do want what they have.
That thing.
That someone-to-come-home-to thing.
That you had a crap day, let me make you forget all about it with snacks and cuddles and smexy fun times thing.
I want someone whose smile makes me forget that hornets think I’m target practice.
Someone who gives me a reason to not just exist, but to actually be .
A mate.
Yeah right.
Who am I kidding?
I’m Doug.
Lone Wolf.
Zero prospects.
Barely making rent and rocking a solid record of bad decisions and worse exes.
Not exactly starring in anyone’s romantic fantasy unless their kink is sad paranormal PI with commitment issues and recent recurring bug trauma.
Fantastic.
Now we’ve officially hit the Self-Deprecation and Despair portion of tonight’s programming.
Next stop: probably Spiraling Into Existential Crisis , sponsored by chamomile tea and poor life choices.
FML .
“Thanks,” I mutter, dragging myself up from the couch like a man twice my age and three times my level of defeat.
Clutching my mug like it contains answers (it doesn’t), I shuffle toward the spare room Horace so graciously offered.
I’m grateful. Really.
But gratitude tastes a lot like defeat right now.
I shut the door behind me, lean against it, and let out a breath that sounds like a dying accordion.
Worst. Friday. Ever.
And considering my last exciting Friday night involved silver handcuffs and a very enthusiastic banshee who thought a safe word was optional, that’s really saying something.