Page 59 of Slaying With Sylphs

Without thinking, I rub my fingers along the healing indentations, familiar worry rising at how she was able to heal from something nobody haseverhealed from.

Lou laughs and pats my stomach. “Still fine, big guy.”

“I worry about them,” I murmur. “Nobody’s been fine like this. Nobody.” I bring my gaze to hers, memorizing every freckle as I stare at her.

Lou shrugs. “Guess I’m just something special.”

“You are.” While we’ve established this isn’t like real therapy, I still aim to make it purposeful for her. My treatment plan is meant to give her lots of opportunity to talk and take action. Priority one is identifying her emotions and giving her some semblance of control.

“Come on in.” I pull her into the room, then shut the door behind her. Pointing toward the porch, I grin. “Food’s back on the painting porch already. We’ll be out there today.”

Her grin goes mischievous. “Are we actually painting this time?”

“Yeah,” I say with a laugh. “I’m avoiding sexy times if at all possible.”

“Aww,” she whines.

Rubbing her arm, I chuckle. “We seem incapable of keeping our hands off one another, but I put together a treatment plan to work through at whatever pace you like.”

She slips forward and presses her body to mine. “And if I get distracted and need another kiss?”

I wave her toward the porch, attempting a serious look. “Then you’ll get it, Lou, if that’s what you want. But we should try to stick to the plan.”

She lifts her chin, playfully defiant, and winks at me. “As long as I get what I want, we’ll be fine.”

Chuckling, I head to the fridge and grab a couple drinks as she spins and walks out onto the porch. I join her there as she sits on a stool in front of the shorter canvas.

I hand her one of the drinks and set mine down beside my canvas. “Alright, we’re co-painting today. “I want you to focuson painting what your emotions feel like when you’re alone with your thoughts, alright?”

She nips at her lower lip. “Okay.” Amber eyes flick to my canvas. “What are you going to paint?”

Smiling, I pick up a long, chunky paintbrush. “I’m going to be painting how last night felt to me.” I point at my timer, which is set for half an hour. “We’ve got thirty minutes to do what you can. There’s no need to ‘finish.’ Just paint what you feel. We’ll spend the last quarter hour going over it.”

“Do I have to be quiet?”

She asks the question in such a huffy tone, I resist the urge to laugh and smother her with kisses.

“Not at all. Talk as much as you want.”

She picks up a skinny paintbrush and sticks it between her teeth so it pokes out of either side of her mouth. Grabbing the black paint, she deposits a glob in one of the mixing trays. Much to my surprise, she’s silent for the first fifteen minutes or so.

I keep an eye on her as I paint in broad brushstrokes. I’ve developed an obsession with her gorgeous strawberry blonde braid so I paint generous swirls of it on the canvas, interweaving the strands. I’m going to hang it in the house so I can see it all the time.

For thirty minutes, she says nothing, utterly focused on the painting. She seems to lose herself in the activity, switching between paint colors and brushing them over the canvas in confident, brash strokes. I don’t know if she has ever painted before, but she appears to be a natural.

Then again, she injects confidence into everything she does. Why should this be any different?

I keep half of my focus on my canvas, and the other half on her. Her muscles are relaxed, her scent filling the air with strawberry and tart lemon. My wolf sits calmly in my mind, interested and focused on Lou’s actions. On her scent, on howpeaceful she is painting out here on the sun porch. She doesn’t even stop for snacks, despite the overflowing charcuterie tray between us.

Thirty minutes passes quickly, and when a small timer rings on my phone, she doesn’t notice. I set my brush down and take my mixing plate to the sink to clean up. When I return, Lou’s still painting feverishly on her canvas.

I tap her shoulder, and she jumps, whirling around with a fierce look. It softens when she sees me, and she laughs.

“My gods, Connall, I was in the zone, man.”

I want to correct her calling me “man.” I might look like a man from her world, but I’m all male, all wolf. I’ve gotten used to her mannerisms, and I love the human sayings she uses. Even when they don’t really apply to me.

She glances at the canvas, nipping at her lower lip as a smile turns her plump mouth upward. “How’d I do, from a therapy perspective?”

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