Page 35 of Bookish Girl’s Emergency Contact Is a Lycan King

I noticed it the first time I drove her, that night at the hospital. The rigid posture. The shallow breathing. The way she gripped the door like it was the only thing anchoring her to the earth. I wrote it off then as lingering trauma from the accident. But this is more than that. This is practiced fear. Habitual fear. The kind that builds over years, that becomes as familiar as breathing.

Who hurt you?

The question circles through my mind, a restless animal, pacing, waiting. I know so many things about her now, her favorite books, her coffee order, the way she talks to herself when she thinks no one’s listening, the color-coded system she uses for her sticky notes. But I don’t know this. I don’t know what made her flinch at the sound of engines. I don’t know why her hands shake every time she gets into a vehicle.

And she hasn’t told me. Hasn’t offered. Changes the subject every time I get close.

Patience. She’ll tell you when she’s ready. If she’s ever ready. If she doesn’t run screaming into the night and never speak to you again.

I slow the car down. Take the curves more gently than necessary. Keep my movements smooth and predictable, telegraphing every turn, every brake, every acceleration. It’s the same technique I use with spooked horses, no sudden moves, no surprises, just steady and calm and safe.

She doesn’t relax. But her breathing evens out a little. Her grip on the door handle loosens by a fraction.

Small mercies.

“You’re being very quiet,” she says, about halfway down the mountain.

“I’m driving.”

“You were quiet before, too. Before the…” She waves her hand. “Before the whole wolf thing.”

“Lycan thing.”

“I’m going to start charging you every time you correct me.”

“I’ll open an account.”

She almost smiles at that. Almost. It’s there in the corner of her mouth, a twitch that doesn’t quite commit.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks. “Right now. While you’re being so quiet and driving so carefully.”

You. Always you. The way you smell, the way you breathe, the way your heart beats too fast when the car takes a curve. The three hundred years I spent waiting for something I didn’t even know I was waiting for, and how all of that time feels like nothing compared to the four days I’ve known you.

“The road,” I say instead. “The weather. Whether Theo has caught up with our intruder yet.”

“That’s a lot of things to think about at once.”

“I’m good at multitasking.”

“You’re good at avoiding questions, is what you’re good at.”

“That too.”

We drive in silence for another few minutes. The rain has slowed, but the roads are still slick, and I keep the speed well below what I’d normally take these curves at. Every few seconds I check the rearview mirror, watching for threats that probably aren’t there, watching for the other car that’s definitely not following us.

Paranoid. Three hundred years of survival and I’m still jumping at shadows.

“Can I ask you something?” Fable’s voice is tentative. Careful.

“Anything.”

“The bullet. The one you took. Are you…” She stops. Swallows. “Is it still in there? Do you need a doctor? Do lycans even have doctors?”

“It’s already working its way out.” I rotate my shoulder slightly, feeling the last of the foreign metal pushing toward the surface. “Should be fully expelled within the hour. Lycan healing is considerably faster than human.”

“That’s… convenient.”

“It has its uses.”