Page 12 of Bookish Girl’s Emergency Contact Is a Lycan King

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t argue. Just watches me with that patient, steady gaze while I fumble for my phone on the bedside table, nearly knock over a cup of water, and finally manage to dial the number I should have written in the first place.

It rings.

And rings.

And goes to voicemail.

Millie’s voice, cheerful and apologetic, fills the silence: “Hey, it’s me! I’m on an emergency work trip… no service, super remote, gone a few weeks. Leave a message!”

I hang up.

Stare at the phone.

A few weeks. No service. Emergency work trip that I didn’t even know about because I’ve been so focused on my own stuff, my own anxiety, my own failed attempt at bravery.

She’s gone. Your emergency person is gone. Your person is unreachable. You’re alone in a hospital with a concussion and a stranger who showed up because you can’t write numbers correctly.

“She’s gone,” I say, and my voice comes out smaller than I want it to. “For weeks. And I didn’t even know.”

A stillness comes over him. A thing I can’t see but can feel, a change in the air pressure.

“Then I’ll take you home.”

“You can’t just…” I sputter, grasping for objections. “The hospital won’t let me… they said I need someone to…”

“I spoke with your nurse.” Still calm. Still steady. How is he always so steady? “They’ll release you into my care. I’ll make sure you get home safely.”

“You’re a stranger.”

“I’m your emergency contact.” His mouth does something that might be a twitch, might be the faintest shadow of a smile. “Legally.”

“That’s not how that works!”

“The hospital seems to think it is.”

I open my mouth to argue. Close it. Open it again.

He’s not wrong.

He’s not wrong, and that’s the most infuriating part. I wrote his number. The hospital called him. He showed up. And now, in the eyes of whatever bureaucratic system governs emergency contacts, he’s officially responsible for making sure I don’t die alone in my apartment after a concussion.

“You’re going to kidnap me,” I say, but there’s no heat in it anymore. “You’re going to take me to your murder cabin in the woods and…”

“I’m going to take you to your bookstore,” he interrupts gently. “Fable Tales. On Main Street. The apartment above it is yours, correct?”

“How do you know…”

“Your nurse mentioned it. When she was explaining your situation.”

I file that away. Add it to the growing folder in my brain labeled things about Orion Halloran that don’t quite add up.

“Fine.” I slump back against the pillows, suddenly exhausted. “Fine. You win. Take me home. But if you turn out to be a serial killer, I’m going to haunt you so hard. I will be the most annoying ghost you’ve ever encountered.”

“I’ll consider myself warned.”

The discharge process takes forever.

Paperwork. Signatures. A nurse who explains my concussion symptoms three separate times and makes me repeat them back to demonstrate I was listening. Instructions for the stitches. Instructions for the headache. Instructions for what to do if I start seeing double or forgetting my own name or feeling like the world is ending more than usual.