Page 44 of Claimed By the Mothman
Her stomach flipped. She wanted to bolt. She wanted to scream. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to punch him in the throat. She clenched her fists.
Anger. Righteous, justified, badly-needed anger. He claimed you. He didn’t ask. He might die. You might die. You are not here because he has wings and red eyes and—
“I need to talk to you,” she said sharply, cutting her thoughts off at the knees.
His antennae, pulled tight against his brow, twitched. “Yes,” he said, the word low and rough in his throat. He stepped aside with a small, deliberate gesture. She hesitated for half a heartbeat, then stepped into the room like a woman walking into her own damnation.
She should have sent a letter. A memo. Filed a metaphysical complaint with the building or left a flaming bag of dog shit outside his door with a Post-it that saiddon’t claim people without consent you lunatic. Anything would’ve been better than standing in the middle of his space while her thighs thrummed.
Her gaze drifted toward the table in the corner and she immediately regretted it as she saw that its legs werewarped, bent outward and back as if they’d fought and lost to contain something feral. Which, of course, they had.
She looked away, fast, and crossed her arms over her chest, fists tucked tight under her elbows like she could physically hold herself together.
Sig was watching her, barely breathing, barely moving. His face was too long, too sharp, too strange. But also? Kind of hot, now that she really looked at it.
Godsdamn it, body.
“Would you like tea?” he asked.
The words startled her like a slap. “What?”
“Tea,” he said again, gently. “It is natural to offer refreshment when a visitor has come calling, yes?”
He moved smoothly before she could answer, crossing the floor and beginning to work with a kind of revenant calm. He grabbed a kettle that looked older than time, placed it on the burner and gracefully twisted open a cabinet to capture two mugs in his large, clawed hands. She watched him curiously as he drew handfuls of leaves from a drawer and began setting a tea service with the grace of a dancer.
“You’re good at that,” she said, before she could stop herself.
He didn’t look back, but something in his posture shifted, like her voice had landed somewhere tender. “I have practiced,” he said, voice steady. There was an awkward pause as the cups continued to clink. The kettle suddenly whistled, far sooner than she would have expected.
He turned and stepped towards her, extending a mug like a peace offering. She took it cautiously. The ceramic was warm, solid, and beautiful. Handmade, clearly. The glaze shimmered in shifting hues of indigo and violet, catching the light in a way that made her throat tighten. It looked like the ring.Of course it looked like the ring.
Sig moved with careful grace, gliding to the bend-legged table and sitting down. Nell stood where she was, her knees locking as memory hit her like a body blow. That table.Thistable. She coughed.
A soft, chirring sound escaped Sig’s throat and his cheeks flushed a faint, luminous blue. He reached for his cup, then stopped, hands twitching, fingers curling against themselves in anxious choreography.
“How is your shoulder?” he asked. His voice cracked halfway through the words.
Nell squeezed her eyes shut. Gods above.You can do this, Nell. You are a grown-ass woman. You are capable of having a civilized discussion with the crypid who threw you on a table and—
“I need answers,” she blurted, her voice too loud, cutting clean across the tension like a knife.
“Yes.” He did not look at her, instead keeping his eyes fixed on his hands.
“So…” she began, slowly and carefully. Hesitantly, she stepped forward until she arrived at the table and she clumsily plopped down in a chair, her knees folding beneath her too quickly.
“I was at the library today. I read about Harbinger bonds.”
His antennae twitched at the word.
“Youarea Harbinger, right?” She hated how small her voice sounded.
“Yes,” he said again, quietly. He tilted his head to the side, and a small clicking sound escaped his throat, like a lock falling into a latch.
She took a long sip of her tea to keep from screaming. “Apparently, if the bonds are rejected, it can lead to, um…” Her eyes flicked to his hands—hands she’d felt digging into her hips, her thighs—and she swallowed hard. “Death.”
“Yes,” he said a third time. Barely audible.
“That’s real? Not just theory?”
