Page 23 of Bookish Girl’s Emergency Contact Is a Lycan King

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“I’m taking it as one anyway.”

He sighs, actually sighs, like I’m personally exhausting him, and holds out my jacket. “My house is quiet. You’ll eat dinner. You’ll actually recover. And you won’t be tempted to climb any ladders.”

“And how do I know you’re not taking me there to kill me?”

The question comes out lighter than I intend, more flirty than serious, but his eyes flicker anyway. Surprise, maybe. Or amusement at how long it took me to ask.

“I’ve spent four days bringing you groceries and alphabetizing your shelves,” he points out. “That seems like a lot of effort for a murder plan.”

“Maybe you’re playing with your food.”

Did I just… did I just imply that I’m his food? What is wrong with me? Why does my brain do this?

But instead of looking disturbed, he looks… intrigued. His head tilts slightly, and warmth moves across his face, and my stomach does an unnecessary flip.

“Maybe I am,” he says, voice dropping lower. “I guess you’ll have to trust me.”

“I don’t trust anyone.”

“You trusted me to drive you home from the hospital.”

“I was concussed. That doesn’t count.”

“You trusted me to cook you breakfast.”

“You had eggs. I was hungry. Survival instinct.”

“You trusted me with your checklist.”

That stops me. Because he’s right. I did trust him with that. Trusted him enough to let him see my systems, my coping mechanisms, the scaffolding I’ve built around my chaos to keep myself functional. And he didn’t mock me for it. He laminated it.

“Fine,” I say, because I don’t have a counter-argument and we both know it. “Take me to your murder cabin. But if I end up dead in a ditch, I’m haunting you forever.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

His house is ridiculous.

Not ridiculous in a McMansion way, not flashy or tacky or trying too hard. Ridiculous in an of course this is where he lives way, the universe having apparently designed a house to match Orion Halloran’s entire aesthetic.

It’s an A-frame cabin, all dark wood and floor-to-ceiling windows, perched on a ridge overlooking the valley like it grew there organically. The view is a view that should be illegal, mountains rolling into the distance, trees catching the last of the autumn light, a sky that’s turning pink and orange in ways that make me want to write poetry and then immediately burn it for being too earnest.

“This is where you live,” I say flatly.

“Yes.”

“Alone.”

“Mostly.”

“In the woods.”

“On the mountain, technically.”

“This is a serial killer house.” I turn to look at him, arms crossed. “You understand that, right? This is exactly the kind of house where people get murdered in true crime podcasts.”

“It has good natural lighting.”