Page 60 of Bookish Girl’s Emergency Contact Is a Lycan King

He doesn’t turn around.

“They called me ‘my lady.’ They bowed.” My voice is steady even though my heart is racing. “They talked about marking and mating. They said you’ve been alone for three centuries.”

“Lycan customs.” His voice is controlled. Blank. “Old-fashioned. Not relevant.”

“They seemed to think it was extremely relevant.”

“They were overstepping.”

“Were they?”

He turns, finally. His expression is carefully neutral, but there’s a flicker in his eyes, one that looks almost like fear.

“There are things I want to explain to you,” he says slowly. “Things I will explain. But not like this. Not because my people showed up and started throwing around words you don’t understand.”

“Then explain them now.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” He stops. Starts again. “Because I need you to know that whatever’s happening between us, whatever you’re feeling, it’s real. It’s not because of anything else. It’s just us.”

“Why would I think it was because of something else?”

He doesn’t answer.

The silence stretches. I think about the word mated, about the deference, about three centuries of aloneness ending here, in my cramped apartment above a bookstore, with a woman who can’t even write down phone numbers correctly.

“Orion.” My voice is steady even though my hands aren’t. “What aren’t you telling me?”

13

— • —

Orion

She’s my mate.

I’ve known since before she opened her eyes at the crash, known it the way I know my own heartbeat, the way I know the pull of the moon on my blood, the way I know the exact position of every book on my shelves. The recognition snapped into place the moment I pulled her from that wreckage, the pull of the bond drawing taut between us, her blood warm on my hands, her voice slurred with pain, calling me pretty like it was the most natural observation in the world.

Three hundred years of waiting, and then she looked at me through a shattered windshield and asked if I was there to take her to a tunnel with light at the end.

The problem is this: humans can reject the bond. Not metaphorically. Actually, at the root, and it leaves a wound that never fully closes. I will not risk that by rushing her. I would rather earn her day by day, letting her choose me with full knowledge and genuine want, than force a certainty that could become devastation.

This is not strategy.

It is terror wearing the mask of patience.

The pack finds me in the woods behind her building, which is not surprising. I’ve been spending more time in these shadows than at my own house, keeping watch, making sure nothing gets close enough to threaten her. It’s obsessive behavior. I know that. Theo has told me as much, in the careful way he has of delivering criticism without actually criticizing.

I don’t care.

Some compulsions are worth keeping.

“Report,” I say, not bothering with pleasantries. The afternoon light filters through the pine canopy in precise geometric patterns, angles I could calculate if I wanted to, though I resist the urge. Theo stands at attention, old military habits surfacing the way they always do in formal moments, while three other pack members hang back at a respectful distance.

“The intruder from the storm,” Theo begins. “Human. Scared. Opportunistic, not predatory… he saw the big house, assumed wealth, made a bad decision.”