Chapter 2
Eb
It’s the end of the day, and I’m frowning at the ledger on my screen, jaw clenched so tight it’s starting to ache.
I hate it when numbers don’t add up.
Not dislike.
Hate.
My inner Badger growls, low and mean, snapping his jaws inside the metaphysical plane where he lounges until he’s needed.
That’s right. You heard me.
I’m a Honey Badger Shifter.
And before you even start—yeah, yeah, I know what you’re thinking.
Dragons get the glory.
Wolves get the romance novel covers.
But you know what they don’t have?
Me.
And trust me, they’re missing out.
Because Honey Badgers don’t play nice.
We don’t chase moonlight or guard treasure.
We take what we want, chew through the bullshit, and keep going long after the pretty boys are panting for air.
Endurance? Check.
Durability? Double check.
The kind of focus that makes lesser Shifters nervous? That’s the Badger way, baby.
And let’s not forget the sweet tooth.
Honey’s not just our namesake—it’s our addiction.
Sticky. Golden. Irresistible.
Kind of like the right woman—soft where you least expect it, but wild enough to bite back when you taste her.
So yeah, I might not breathe fire or howl at the moon.
But when I sink my teeth in, I mean it.
And once a Badger decides something—or someone—is his?
There’s no force on this Earth, mortal or magical, that’s prying her out of his claws.
But I don’t have time for a love life. I’m way too busy with work.
And no, no one asked for your opinion.
I’m fine spending my holidays alone, fuck you very much.
I’m the CEO of Rogers & Reed Investments, a third-generation, family-run firm, and I take my job seriously.
Too seriously, according to my little brother.
But Bobby can take that theory and shove it up his plaid-pajama-wearing ass because my too serious nature is the reason this company still exists.
Spreadsheets are my comfort zone.
Profit margins, my love language.
And if that makes me a Scrooge in an Armani sweater, so be it.
“Yo, Eb!”
The door slams open like the heralding of my impending aneurysm, and there he is—Bobby Rogers.
My brother.
My business partner.
My personal migraine wrapped in human form.
“For God’s sake,” I mutter, glancing up, “what the hell are you wearing?”
He’s standing in my office doorway in neon-green Bermuda shorts, flip-flops, and a Hawaiian shirt that looks like it lost a fight with a paintball gun.
He grins. “What? You forgot? It’s Rita Farraday’s Christmas Luau tonight! You know, our biggest client? She invited both of us.”
I stare at him.
Then, I glance at the thermometer reading twenty-six degrees outside. And my gaze flicks back at him.
“Bobby. We live in New Jersey. It’s freezing. I am not going to a goddamn luau.”
He clutches his chest like I’ve mortally wounded him.
“Bro, you can’t keep working yourself to death! You need to have some fun, meet people—preferably ones who don’t have stock tickers for personalities!”
“Bobby,” I sigh, “I have to get these numbers to reconcile before close. You’d know that if you spent any time in your office instead of whatever tiki hellscape you’ve got planned.”
He waves me off.
“Fine, fine. Be a grouch. But before you lock yourself in your cave again, check your email. Or your texts.”
Suspicion crawls up my spine.
“Why?”
“Let’s just say,” he drawls, “your Christmas gift came early this year.”
I squint at him. “Define gift.”
He smirks—the kind of smirk that means trouble—and starts backing out of my office.
“Oh, you’ll see. Just don’t skip it, yeah? The contract’s magically binding.”
I blink.
“What?”
“Magically enforced,” he repeats, still grinning. “So if you don’t go, you’ll regret it. Merry Christmas!”
And then he’s gone.
Whistling Mele Kalikimaka down the hall.
I stare at the doorway for a full thirty seconds, waiting for the punch line.
It doesn’t come.
“Bobby!” I roar, storming out of my office. “What the hell did you do?”
He’s already halfway down the hall, laughing like a lunatic.
I swear I’m going to throttle him—just enough to knock some sense into that sun-bleached brain of his.
I’m sure our father would approve wherever he his—Gods rest his soul.
Then my phone dings.
I stop mid-stride, glare down at the screen.
Congratulations, Ebenezer Rogers!
Your exclusive invitation to Uncle Uzzi’s Date to Mate Holiday Gala has been magically confirmed.
Attendance is required.
Click here to confirm your registration.
I blink. Once. Twice.
Before I can even mutter a “hell no,” the screen lights up again. Blue sparkles swirl across the display, forming a little heart that pulses like it’s mocking me.
Your registration is confirmed!
“What? I didn’t touch a thing!” I bark, jabbing uselessly at the screen.
The sparkles swirl faster, like they’re laughing at me, then—ding!
Your match has been found!
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
My jaw tightens. My pulse kicks.
And deep inside, my Badger stirs.
He’s been fairly quiet for weeks—months, even.
Usually only comes out when something threatens my territory or someone screws up the quarterly reports.
But right now, that feral bastard is pacing.
Curious. Interested.
Mate? He rumbles, voice low and gritty in the back of my mind.
“No,” I mutter under my breath. “Absolutely not.”
Could be nice.
He sniffs, sharp claws scraping at the inside of my ribs.
A mate. Someone warm. Soft. Smells like honey.
I grind my teeth.
“Oh, yeah? You just want snacks and someone to scratch behind your ears.”
Maybe. Or maybe it’s time we stop sleeping alone, eh?
I freeze. Because I can feel the sly grin in his tone.
That infuriating, primal part of me—the one that fights, endures, and never lets go—is intrigued.
And damn it, I hate that he might be right.
Because while the rational side of me is fuming about magical consent violations and HR policies, my Badger is already perking up like someone just opened a jar of clover honey.
Mate, he murmurs again, hopeful this time.
I stare at the glittering phone screen, the ridiculous heart still pulsing.
“Great,” I sigh. “Now I’m arguing with myself.”
But when another ding chimes and the app logo flashes a warm, golden glow, then a bunch of dancing snowflakes glitter across my screen and even I can’t deny it.
Something’s shifting.
And for the first time in a long time, I’m not sure if I want to stop it.