Page 110 of Claimed By the Mothman
He reached a hand forward and pressed it to her chest, between her breasts, right over the frantic beat of her heart.
“I feel you here,” he whispered. “Even if the building takes you. Even if the bond breaks. I will still feel it.” His voice fractured, just once. “And I will find you again.”
—
His hips drove into hers again and again, brutal and inexorable. One hand slid between her thighs, finding the throbbing ache of her clit, fingers circling in perfect time with each thrust. Nell couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t exist beyond this. Her hand reached back blindly, searching for the point where their bodies met, needing to anchor herself at the edge of unraveling.
Their marks ignited, and light seared across her skin as her body locked around him. He thrust once, twice, then came with a resonant, thrumming cry that shook the air. His wings snapped wide, gusting wind through the room so fiercely a pillow lifted from the bed. His cock pulsed inside her in thick waves, and she came with him, one final time. His claspers clamped tight around her hips, holding her through it, just shy of bruising.
They collapsed together with a shudder, into sweat and tangled limbs. Flesh to chitin. Bond and breath mingling. Sig folded around her, gently this time, stroking her skin with dazed reverence.
“Sig,” Nell whispered.
He pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “I would die for this,” he breathed in a voice broken by all they had done. “I would give the last of myself if it meant you would never have to walk through that door.”
She turned just enough to kiss the corner of his mouth.“Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t speak of endings.”
A tremor shook his body.
“But if the end comes,” she breathed, “I still would choose this. A thousand times.”
He chittered and flattened one clawed hand over her belly. Nell threaded their fingers together and pulled their joined hands to her heart.
‘I will walk with you into the Lustrum tomorrow,” he whispered into her ear. “I will not let you face it alone.”
“You don’t have to,” she said.
“I do.”
Her throat tightened. She squeezed his hand. They breathed together like that in sync, in stillness, until his claspers loosened and slid away from her hips. Nell turned to face him, eyes beginning to shimmer. She pressed her forehead to his and a single tear slipped down her cheek. Sig brushed it away with the back of his knuckle so gently she almost didn’t feel it.
“If we don’t make it out,” she whispered, “I want you to know that I love you. With all of me. I believe I loved you before we ever met.”
His voice came back softly, steady and sure. “If this is the last night we have, then know this, beloved. My soul will remember you forever and love you twice beyond that.”
Chapter 23
Nell awoke with a start.
She and Sig had held each other through the night, dozing at times, and others simply touching, kissing, clinging. She’d fallen asleep wrapped in the veil of his wing, his breath warm against the back of her neck.
But now, as she blinked into waking, she realized the bed beside her was empty.
Breath hitching, she sat up too fast, the room tilting sideways. Her hand fumbled to the sheets where the indentation of his body still shallowed. A faint shimmer of wing dust hung in the air like frost caught mid-fall. Uselessly, she ran her fingers through it.
The opal on her finger flared once and then fell inert, suddenly twice as heavy as it was before. Nell stared down in disbelief and pushed the blankets away in a sudden, graceless motion.
“Sig?” she called, voice hoarse and dry. Her breath caught as she listened, seeking, searching for the bond. And nothing but silence met her.
Wait—not quite silence, but an emptiness, like something had been scooped out and left a hollow in her chest. Traces of the bond still lingered, pulsing faintly, but muffled now.
She glanced in horror at the floor. His clothes, which had puddled there the night before, were missing.
Nell swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, moving too fast and too slow at the same time. Grabbing her robe, she tied the sash with trembling hands and stepped into the hallway, heart catching in her throat.
The air in the apartment was wrong. Heavy. Thick.
She darted into the living room, her eyes darting across the familiar objects as if they held answers. The room was still and dim, streaked with angled morning light. Everything was as it had been the day before. But Sig wasn’t there.
