Page 43 of Slaying With Sylphs

I blink away errant thoughts as I process what he’s saying. Looking up into those green eyes, I try to understand.

Connall rounds the island and grabs my hand. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”

Twisting my fingers through his, I allow him to pull me through the room and down a short hall into a sunny porch-like area. A singular canvas sits on a stand in one corner. Buckets of paint cover every surface with giant containers full of brushes.

“Are you a painter?” The words croak out of me as I imagine Connall painting.

“I am,” he says, “but it’s also a therapy method that works really well for some. That’s not what I wanted to show you though.” He leans down to a half bookshelf and grabs a thick leather tome. When there’s nowhere to set it down, he grabs three buckets of paint and moves them somewhere else, balancing them precariously on top of others. This entire room is one painty disaster waiting to happen.

I love it. I never want to leave.

Connall drums his fingers along the book’s cover. “When Hearth HQ designed the haven system, they knew we needed a place for those monsters so scarred from all the wars that happened before, they needed extra help. There’s a haven called Shadowsurf, named by its occupants, for those monsters.”

Immediately, I picture a leper colony. Or that scene fromFireflywhere the crazy people-eating monsters swarm the town and drag everyone away.

“It’s a wonderful place to be and visit,” Connall offers, opening the book. A black-and-white photograph of a variety of monsters stares back at me. Their arms are slung around one another’s waists, and they’re all smiling.

“In order to gain access to Shadowsurf, you must have experienced moral injury—an accidental death, wartime, something like that. And the whole concept of this haven is being around those who can understand what you went through. I’ve referred many clients there.”

I flip the page to see an array of images, all depicting monsters in groups. Talking, playing skyball, sitting in a group with eyes closed like they’re meditating.

Glancing up at Connall, I frown. “Do you think I need to go here?”

He smiles back at me, reaching out to tuck my braid over my shoulder. “I’m not suggesting you need to do anything, Lou, just that it exists, because, what you’re going through? Others have been through it before. If they can get through it, you can too.”

Tears prick my eyes. I want to hug him. Scratch that. I reallyneeda hug. Before I can talk myself out of it, I push into his arms and bury my face in his chest.

Connall’s purr is immediate, deep and rolling as it envelops me in comfort. Big, warm hands come to my back. One slides all the way around to hold my waist. The other moves up into my hair, gripping the base of my neck.

I’ve never particularly loved being manhandled. I think I’m just so bratty and independent, and I never had a partner I trusted to take care of me. And thinking about it now, trust is something people have to earn from me.

But I trust Connall. Implicitly. Completely. I’ve never met a steadier, more calming person. So I sink into his pecs and say nothing as he purrs and holds me tight. The rolling warmth of the sound relaxes my muscles one by one. I never want to leave the comfort of his embrace. Eventually, I glance at the clock and realize we’ve been standing here for nearly half an hour, and my session is just forty-five minutes long.

“Gods, I’m sorry.” I pull away from him. “I didn’t realize I needed a hug that badly, and I almost used up our whole time.”

Connall smiles at me. “Hugging is an essential part of wolf culture, but not at all for any other type of monster therapist. So, consider yourself a wolf, Lou.”

“Wish I were,” I mutter. “Being just a human is so boring. I’m jealous of the triplets actually being witches.”

The moment I say it, I realize how catty that sounds. I adore my nieces, would give my life for them any day. My loyalty literally knows no depths. But Iamjealous of their power. Not that I don’t want them to have it. I just want it too.

“Sounds like something we should discuss very soon,” Connall says with a gentle smile. “You’re perfect to me as you are, Lou. Being who you are is magic enough.”

I risk a glance at him as tears fill my eyes again.

I want to kiss him. Stepping closer, I press my body to his, glad he insisted we not call this therapy.

“I want to kiss you,” I admit.

“A lovely idea, but most decidedly not therapy,” he says with a laugh.

I shrug. “I dunno. It might not be your typical therapy, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be therapeutic.” I look up at him. “We should try it, for science.”

His mouth drops open, then zips shut as his wolf’s brighter green shade overtakes his eyes.

“It might get out of hand,” he warns.

“What does your instinct tell you to do?” I’m pushing him a little. But I want to see that side of Connall that’s not so professional. Therapy shmerapy.

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