Page 59 of Hart's Redemption

I bared my teeth at him. “Technically, that’s three conditions.” He shrugged as if it were irrelevant, but I caught a spark of excitement in his hazel eyes. “Illuminate me,” I deadpanned, taking a sip of the fresh brew, which, against everything, was actually growing on me.

“I believe I mentioned before that my husband wasn’t initially a fan of the tea either. It was actually the first ‘treatment’ I ever gave him, and it was on our first date.” Yanesh closed his eyes and chuckled, seemingly at the memory. “Damn furball thought it would be a good idea to go out the night before a full moon. Typically, that wouldn’t be much of an issue, but as you might have surmised, he also has Mein Zeke, of the genetic variety and quite severe.”

“Why in seven hells would he do that?”

“Are you asking because it’s not something you would do, or because you have empathy for what his night would have beenlike?” He waited patiently for me to gather my thoughts and sipped at his cup.

I rolled my shoulders. Set my cup down. Picked it back up. Then set it aside again. “Both?”

He considered me again, his sharp gaze darting over my face as if searching for something. “Detective Hart, do you not believe you are worthy of empathy?”

The question hit me out of nowhere, and I recoiled so hard that I bumped the table and sloshed my tea. I stared at the droplets of liquid coalescing together into a large pool and a subsequent smaller one. Neither of us moved to clean it up.

“Josh, you agreed to give therapy a chance. Questions are part of that. Refusing to answer benefits no one, least of all yourself.”

“You still haven’t explained how you think therapy will help me,” I countered.

He arched an eyebrow in amusement, putting my hackles up. “I don’t think you actually want me to answer that. Much like you don’t want to answer my question.”

I suddenly had a much greater appreciation for how people felt when I glared at them. Not that Yanesh was glaring at me. Quite the opposite. He wore an almost smile, his face was open and relaxed, he also seemed to possess an endless well of patience. In short, I felt like I was under a microscope, that he’d be able to pick apart and dissect anything I did or said. Or, in this case, didn’t say.

“You, Joshua Hart, could benefit immensely from therapy if you remain open to it. You get out what you put in. The reasons I believe you’d benefit go beyond your affliction. I’ve done my homework on you.”

I snorted and reached for the cup of tea again. “Oh? And what did you find? An arrogant asshole who killed a bunch of lycanthropes simply because he could then karmically gotturned into one after he nearly died even though he was supposed to be immune?”

“You’ve neglected a few key points in that unforgiving synopsis, now haven’t you?” I grumbled to myself, hiding my face in the cup. Shame Yanesh didn’t take the hint. “I’ll take that as agreement, seeing as how you can’t voice anything to the contrary. I must say, this no-lying bit is quite fascinating. So don’t bother trying to refute what I’m about to tell you, since we both know it’s the truth.”

I sank deeper into the thin mattress, cradling my cup against my chest. I didn’t like where this was heading in the least.

He released a put-upon sigh. “Your life is riddled with abuse. First at the hands of your mother, then by your officers during training, and onto the world at large and how it views Lycan Detectives. The most concerning abuse, however, is the abuse you inflict upon yourself.”

“I don’t self-harm,” I snarled at him.

“Not physically. Reductively, you will never master control over your heightened state until youbelieveit can be done and, most importantly, that youdeserveto have a full life not dictated by your affliction. So answer me: do you believe you are worthy of empathy?”

I hated this. There was nowhere to run to, no way to escape this horrible conversation that I’d presumably be having several times a month, if not a week. I sat forward, placing my feet on the ground, and my leg immediately began to bounce. I squeezed my eyes shut and searched for a way to answer his question without actually answering it. He was worse than Elijah.

“It’s a simple question, Detective Hart. Yes or no?” he pressed.

“People who… I haven’t…” I abandoned my false starts and squeezed my eyes against the inevitable. “No. I do not believe I’m worthy of empathy.”

“Do you believe you deserve to be punished?”

“Yes,” I admitted.

“Is that why you’re here? Why you didn’t tell your partner what was coming?”

Anxiety lanced through my chest, and I ripped my gaze away from the table to look at him directly. “How do you know that?”

“Know what? That you allowed yourself to be arrested? That you didn’t tell your partner you wouldbearrested? Or that Elijah is actually your m—”

I growled a warning. “Don’t even think about saying that. Whatever you believe Elijah and I are to each other, keep it to yourself. I will not discuss it.”

He held up his hands in surrender, though curious doubt clouded his expression. “As you wish. As for how I knew you allowed yourself to be caught, your reputation precedes you, and I find it difficult to believe that you couldn’t have evaded arrest if you wanted to. In addition, you’ve all but told me you’re here because you believe you deserve to be punished. As for not telling your—” I glared at him. “Your partner about your imminent arrest, that was a guess. Thank you for affirming it.”

I spluttered, and he grinned, much to my increasing irritation. “Are all of your sessions like this? Do you badger all of your clients with rude, intrusive questions guaranteed to put their ruff up?”

“Only the most obstinate. If you were curious, that list also includes my husband, so I haveplentyof practice. My time with you is almost up for the day, but I’d like to leave you with some grounding techniques and—”