Page 28 of Bookish Girl’s Emergency Contact Is a Lycan King

I look at the cat on my shoulder. The cat looks back at me with copper-penny eyes that seem to hold a low opinion of the entire species of human.

“You hate him?” I ask Mario.

He yowls again, directly at Orion.

“I think that’s a yes.”

“He’s dramatic.” Orion crosses his arms, and I swear he’s sulking. Actually sulking, a very tall man personally betrayed by a cat half the size of his head. “He follows me around the house screaming at me and then acts offended when I try to pet him.”

“Maybe he has his reasons.”

“His reasons are that I saved his life and he’s ungrateful.”

“Or maybe you smell wrong.”

Orion pauses. “What?”

“Cats are smell-oriented. Maybe you smell like something he doesn’t like. Dogs, or, I don’t know, other animals.”

Emotion crosses his face. There and gone, too fast to read.

“I don’t have any other animals.”

“Then maybe you just have bad vibes.”

“I have excellent vibes.”

“Says the man whose own cat hates him.”

Mario chooses this moment to knead his claws into my shoulder in a way that’s definitely painful but also definitely affectionate, and I decide I would die for him instantly. No questions asked.

“You’re my favorite,” I tell him. “Don’t let him hear, but you’re my favorite thing in this entire murder cabin.”

“It’s not a murder cabin.”

“Says the serial killer.”

“You’re holding my cat.”

“Your cat chose me. There’s a difference.”

Orion makes a sound that’s half sigh, half growl, and I feel Mario tense on my shoulder, just for a second, before settling back into his furry scarf configuration.

Interesting. He reacted to that sound. Like he recognized it. Like he didn’t like it.

One more entry for the collection. I’m going to need multiple folders at this point.

The storm starts around seven-thirty, rolling in from the mountain like something angry.

I’m still on the couch, Mario now migrated from my shoulder to my lap and curled into an orange circle of feline superiority, when the first crack of thunder shakes the windows. Rain follows almost immediately, not gradual but sudden, sheets of water hammering against the glass like they’re trying to get in.

“That’s… a lot of weather,” I observe.

“October storms.” Orion is in the kitchen, doing something with candles that suggests he was expecting this. “They come in fast up here. Usually blow through in a few hours.”

“Usually?”

“Sometimes they stick around.”