Page 9 of Good Luck Charm for the Wolf

“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.”

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