Chapter 5
Doug
“ O h my fucking fuck, why won’t this thing work?”
I jab at the screen like that’s gonna make it any easier.
Stupid hunk of metal!
How did normals make it look so easy?
“It won’t work, Doug ,” Horace rumbles with the patience of a boulder, “because you can’t scream at it or shred it with your clumsy Wolf claws. That is a state-of-the-art piece of machinery, you moron!”
He snatches the phone right out of my hands like I’m a misbehaving cub.
Okay. Fine. My claws did pop out for a second.
Maybe two.
But seriously. Have you ever tried typing in your height, weight, occupation, and deepest personal insecurities while your fingertips keep threatening to turn into lethal weapons?
Not easy, my friend.
Not fucking easy.
“Technology is stupid, not me. I got Bs and Cs in school, Mr. Grumpy Face,” I mutter, crossing my arms like a grumpy toddler.
Horace gives me the look. The you are the biggest idiot I know look.
And I just sigh.
I get that look a lot.
Mostly from a certain know-it-all Bear.
Still, he’s not wrong.
I roll my neck, still trying to shake off the residual creep factor clinging to me after Mrs. Goyle, a real life Bad Witch and my former client from hell, left Pizza Girls a few minutes earlier.
Uncle Uzzi worked his matchmaking magic and got her to kind of agree to lift the curse.
Kind of.
Instead of straight-up removing the bad luck hex, she amended it.
Now, if I didn’t put myself out there and trust the Fates to hook me up, my already shitty luck would come back times ten.
Yeah. Fantastic. Exactly what I wanted.
Magically mandated dating.
Awesome.
“ Trust the Fates. ”
“ It’ll be fun. ”
“ You won’t understand the pain you’ve caused unless you find love yourself! ”
It’s so unfair! I mean, I don’t want to fall in love with anyone.
Being a Lone Wolf means not trusting anyone but yourself.
No Pack.
No doting mate.
No family to nag me about settling down or bringing side dishes to Sunday dinner.
Just me, my PI gigs, and a serious addiction to late-night diner milkshakes.
I sure do love me a good black and white milkshake! And no, it’s not the same as a chocolate shake, you peasant!
Okay, so, yeah, sometimes it’s a little lonely.
Especially when guys like Horace sit around getting doted on by their mates while I’m basically the mascot for Single and Cursed Anonymous .
But whatever. That’s life.
“Stop scratching,” Horace snaps.
I freeze, one hand halfway to my neck.
“Was I scratching? I wasn’t scratching.”
His unimpressed glare says otherwise.
Fine. Maybe I was.
A little.
But honestly, how am I supposed to chill when my skin still feels like it’s hosting a demon mosquito rave?
He tosses the semi-melted and forgotten ice pack the little waitress brought earlier at me. And I pick it up and drop it on my itchiest hive. Right on my neck.
“Ahhh.”
It feels much better.
I groan and sink into the chair as Horace types in the last few details on my profile like the tech wizard he apparently is when pizza and sarcasm aren’t involved.
That’s when I feel it.
A prickle.
A shift in the air.
Wolf senses tingling.
Not danger.
Maybe prey.
I’m curious.
I glance up, eyes drawn to movement near the counter.
Oh.
Her.
Dina.
Short curls bouncing as she laughs at something Carina says, her Pizza Girls tee slouchy and adorable over leggings that should not be that distracting.
She catches me looking and offers a hesitant smile, one of those shy-lipped, soft kinds that somehow punches you right in the chest.
Damn. That’s cute .
And not good.
Because humans?
Not my thing.
They’re soft.
Sweet. Sure.
But also, and more importantly, they’re breakable .
Not built for the kind of chaos that follows me around like a cosmic joke.
She’s the type who gives you an ice pack without asking questions, tries to interrupt awkward arguments just to cut the tension, and actually cares when you look like you’ve been hit by a truck full of bad decisions.
Nope.
Not for me.
I don’t deserve soft things like that. I’m too clumsy. Too oafish.
Someone like Dina deserves a guy who can go a week without getting cursed or hexed or nearly eaten by enchanted furniture.
Not some grumpy Lone Wolf disaster who wears sarcasm like armor.
Still, she’s looking at me.
And my Wolf?
He perks up like hey, pay attention, she’s cute and smells like yummy things and sunshine.
I breathe deep. Yeah, she does. Pure fucking sunshine and daffodils.
This girl is practically oozing possibilities.
She’s springtime personified.
I clear my throat as she comes over, arms crossed and mischief dancing in her eyes.
“So,” she says, tilting her head, “does the phone usually win, or is tonight special?”
I blink.
Then snort.
Okay, that was good.
“Special,” I admit, smirking despite myself. “Usually I only lose fights with weaponized wasps and magicked microwaves.”
Her eyes dart to the bandage on my head, and I wince and grab it. I know my supernatural healing has it fixed by now.
She grins, leaning just a little closer.
Close enough that my Wolf definitely takes notice.