Page 40 of Bookish Girl’s Emergency Contact Is a Lycan King

“I prefer the term ‘boundaries,’ which you apparently don’t understand!”

“I understand them. I’m choosing to disregard them for your own good.”

“That’s not how boundaries work!”

He tilts his head, and the gesture is so canine, so impossibly wolf-like, that I almost laugh despite my irritation. Almost.

“You’re angry,” he observes.

“I’m CONFUSED. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

“Yes! Angry is when someone does something wrong and you’re mad about it. Confused is when someone does something completely insane and you don’t know how to feel about it.”

“And which one is this?”

“BOTH. It’s BOTH.”

I’m waving the knife around as I talk, I realize. Gesturing with a weapon at a naked immortal wolf-man in my stockroom at eleven o’clock at night. This is my life now. This is what my life has become.

“You can put down the knife,” he says. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I know you’re not going to hurt me. You took a bullet for me.”

“Then why are you still holding it?”

“Because I don’t know what else to do with my hands!”

I shove the knife onto the nearest shelf, nearly knocking over a stack of paperbacks in the process. The Fabio covers stare at me judgmentally. Even the fictional heroes think I’m handling this badly.

“I don’t need protection,” I say, trying to gather the shreds of my composure. “I’ve been taking care of myself for years. I’ve been fine.”

“I know.” He says it simply, without judgment. “You’ve done an incredible job. You’ve built a business, a life, a routine that works for you. But you don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

“I’m not…” My throat tightens. “I’m not doing it alone. I have Millie. I have my regulars. I have…”

“You have a cat who just adopted you and a stranger who turned into a wolf in your kitchen. That’s what you have.”

“Stockroom. You turned into a wolf in my stockroom.”

“My apologies. I’ll aim for the kitchen next time.”

I laugh. I don’t mean to, the sound just escapes, startled out of me by the absurdity of the whole situation. He smiles at that, a real smile, and something in my chest does an unnecessary flip.

Stop that. Stop reacting to him. He’s a wolf person. A lycan. A…

I’m staring at him again. At his chest, specifically. At the way the dim light from the shop catches the planes of muscle, the ridges of his stomach, the dark trail of hair that leads down to…

“My eyes are up here, sweetheart.”

My gaze snaps up so fast I almost get whiplash. He’s smiling, actually smiling, not just the almost-version, and his whole face has gone warm with what looks dangerously like satisfaction.

“Though I don’t mind the ogling,” he continues, and his voice has dropped lower. Rougher. “Look as long as you like.”

“I wasn’t OGLING.”

“Your pupils are dilated. Your breathing has changed. Your cheeks are flushed.” He takes a step closer, and suddenly the stockroom feels very small. “And I can smell…”