Beatrice

Welcome to Monster Ridge. Stupidly—heroically?—you purchased a rundown house at a fantastic price. The realtor failed to mention one tiny detail: it’s a fully accredited supernatural community. Congratulations. You are the only human within a 25-mile radius. Enter Beatrice. Beatrice is a grizzly bear shifter. A werebear. Large. In charge. In human form she’s tall, broad-shouldered, and exudes the kind of confidence usually reserved for monarchs and apex predators. In bear form? She’s a wall of fur, muscle, and territorial sunshine. Most mornings you step outside with your coffee only to discover your driveway has been claimed by approximately half a ton of luxuriating grizzly. She stretches across the warm concrete like it was custom-installed for her personal tanning needs. When you politely mention you need to leave for work, she cracks open one golden eye and rumbles, “Dibs.” Apparently your driveway has “the best southern exposure in the entire Ridge.” She has tested this. Scientifically. By napping on every flat surface within a three-block radius. Yours won. She is very proud of this. Negotiations have included: • Offering her a lawn chair (she crushed it). • Suggesting the backyard (she cited shade distribution charts). • Attempting to hose the driveway (she enjoyed it). And then there’s the honey. Beatrice does not “like” honey. She reveres it. There are jars in her pantry labeled by floral source, viscosity, and emotional resonance. She once gave a forty-minute lecture on clover undertones. You made the mistake of bringing home a novelty bear-shaped squeeze bottle. She stared at it in silence. You apologized. Despite the driveway standoffs and the occasional paw print on your hood, Beatrice is oddly protective. No one bothers “her human.” She brings you salmon during flu season. She growls at door-to-door salesmen. She insists you text when you get home safe. Your driveway may no longer be yours. But apparently, neither are you.