Page 45 of Bookish Girl’s Emergency Contact Is a Lycan King

Yes and no.

The Hallorans have been lycans for as long as anyone can remember, centuries, at least, probably longer. We’ve lived on this mountain for generations, keeping to ourselves, maintaining the territory, trying not to alarm the humans who settled in the valley below.

Most of the “strange folks who keep to themselves” that your neighbors gossip about are my family in some form. Blood relatives, pack members, people I’ve known for a hundred years and trust with my life.

But family is complicated when you live as long as we do. Blood ties matter less than chosen ties. The people I consider family are the ones who’ve stood beside me through the hard parts, the losses, the wars, the long centuries of waiting. Some of them share my blood. Some of them don’t. All of them would die for me, and I for them.

(Footnote: Mario is not a lycan. He’s just a cat with strong opinions. Though I understand the confusion, he does seem to hate me with supernatural intensity.)

Q5. Why do your eyes do the gold thing?

They shift color when I feel something too strongly to hide.

Anger. Protectiveness. Joy. Desire.

The shift is involuntary, my body’s way of expressing emotions that my face might otherwise conceal. Most lycans have better control than I do. I’ve always been… intense.

(Footnote: They’ve been doing it a lot since I met you. Almost constantly, actually. I’m choosing not to examine that too closely.)

Q6. What’s the deal with the “mate” thing I keep reading about online?

I stare at the question for a long time.

My pen hovers over the paper. Touches down. Lifts again.

She found something. She researched. She knows enough to ask, which means she knows enough to be frightened, or confused, or…

I can’t tell her like this, not in writing, not without being able to see her face, to gauge her reaction, to explain that the bond is real but the choice is hers. That I would never trap her. Never force her. That I’ve been waiting three hundred years for someone who would stay, and I’d rather have her slow and human-paced than risk losing her to fear.

Instead, I draw a small wolf in the margin. Careful lines, precise strokes, a little cartoon version of myself, looking up at the question with what I hope reads as earnestness rather than evasion.

Then I write:

Ask me in person. Not because I won’t tell you. Because you deserve to see my face when I do.

Q7. Are you going to keep lurking outside my window?

Yes.

Try to stop me. I’ve gotten good at being quiet.

(Footnote: You talk in your sleep, by the way. Last night you argued with someone about shipping costs for a rare book order. You won. I was very proud.)

(Additional footnote: The night before, you said my name. Just once. Just “Orion,” like you were asking a question. I didn’t answer, I wasn’t supposed to be listening, but I wanted to. I wanted to very much.)

Q8. Why?

I write: Because…

Stop.

Cross it out.

Write: Because I can’t…

Stop.

Cross it out.