Page 43 of Hot Monster Summer

“Goodnight, monsters,” I call over my shoulder, putting an extra sway in my step just to be petty.

I close the cabin door firmly behind me, leaning against it with a shaky exhale. My body still tingles from Caspian’s underwater attentions, my skin still faintly luminous in the darkness of the cabin.

“What the hell are you doing, Lily?” I whisper.

I should be calling the ranger station, or the police, or exorcists, or whoever deals with monsters pursuing humans. Instead, I’m cataloging the differences between forest pleasure, wolf claiming, and underwater ecstasy, wondering how I’ll ever return to normal human sex after this.

If I return to normal human life at all.

That thought stops me cold.

Am I actually considering this? Choosing one of them? Becoming something more—or other—than human? Just a month ago, my biggest concern was whether to keep the wedding venue deposit.

Now I’m contemplating immortality with a forest troll, a dire wolf, or a kraken.

I laugh, the sound edged with hysteria, as I stumble toward the bedroom.

I need sleep.

I collapse onto the bed, exhaustion finally catching up to me. My body still aches pleasantly from three nights of monstrous encounters, my mind racing with impossible choices.

As sleep claims me, I dream of forests that breathe, caves with hot springs, and underwater ruins glowing with forgotten magic.

And somewhere in those dreams, I think: What if I want them all?

13

Lily

Iwake up with my fingers stained blue. On my easel sits a canvas I painted last night—an underwater scene of impossible beauty, ruins glowing with light.

It's the most beautiful thing I've ever created.

I touch the paint, and it’s still wet.

My art has always been good, but this is transcendent. It's like I'm channeling something beyond my normal abilities.

Is this what happens when you let monsters into your heart? When you open yourself to unfathomable possibilities?

Before I even realize it, I’m sitting at my easel painting again, not even stopping for coffee, which by itself is downright sinful, but I have a renewed eagerness, one I haven’t felt in years.

My paintings have slowly morphed over the years to accommodate the commissions I’d secured, which consisted mostly of painting people with their pets. It’s paid the bills, but let’s just say my creative mind wasn’t fulfilled in the least.

I'm mid-stroke on my painting when the memory hits.

Sarah, my sister, is sitting on my couch, eating ice cream, and listening to me worry about Brad and the upcoming wedding.

"You're overthinking it," she'd said. "He's a good guy."

All the while, she was fucking him behind my back.

The paintbrush snaps in my grip.

I loved and trusted them both, and they gutted me. Two weeks later, they had the audacity to ask me to "be happy for them" at a family dinner.

But sitting here, surrounded by this beautiful wilderness and three beings who really see me, I realize something profound.

Brad never looked at me the way Kaelen does, like I'm prey, prize, and partner all at once. He never touched me with Oren's reverent gentleness, like I'm something so precious. He never saw beneath my surface the way Caspian does, recognizing depths I didn't know I had.

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