Page 46 of Claimed By the Mothman
She clutched her stomach, one hand flying to the floor for balance. The pull toward him wasvisceral, like her own nerves were betraying her.
The space between them shimmered with heat and fury and something achingly tender, and she hated all of it.
“This isn’tfair,” she whispered, and her voice broke. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want—” She gestured wildly between them. “Whatever the hell this is.”
“I will not allow this to remain so,” Sig said, voice low but trembling with urgency. “Nell—I take full responsibility. I will find a way to sever it, to shield you, to—”
“Don’t,” she hissed.
His mouth snapped shut like she’d struck him.
She scrambled to her feet. “Thanks for the tea,” she said flatly. “Leave me the fuck alone.”
He didn’t move to stop her, but she could feel the sorrow blooming from him, pressing against her chest like a second heartbeat, echoing in her ribs. It made her stomach turn. Made her want to scream. Or cry. Or go back and—
No.
No.
She reached for the doorknob, yanked it open, and slammed it shut behind her.
Chapter 9
The first days had been unbearable. He had not left the apartment.
Not because he feared her, but because he feared himself.
The bond had howled through him—loud, primal, unfinished. His body throbbed with it, every instinct honed to one unbearable truth: she was nearby, and she wasnot his.
He had clawed the door frame the first night. In a moment of clarity, he had pushed the couch across the entryway like a barricade and pinned himself to the floor with gravity charms just tostay still.
Once—just once—he’d made it to the hallway before coming to his senses, panting, trembling, mouth half-open with need. He’d slunk back inside his apartment before anyone could see.
I am not an animal, he reminded himself over and over.I am a being of reason and choice.
We do not rut without consent. We are not feral. We live in a society.
It had not helped.
Only time dulled the edge, slightly. Just enough for him to think without the haze of lust, to breathe without shaking, to meditate without imagining the taste of her skin or the way her voice had cracked when she told him to leave her alone.
The bond still hummed between them like a live wire, but he would not take. He would not beg. He would wait for her to make her choice, even if it drove him mad.
–
Sig sat cross-legged on the floor of his apartment, palms up, surrounded by the soft glow of resonance-reactive flora. As he breathed, the vines above the window sagged visibly, one leaf curling inward with a sigh.
“You should apologize to the building,” said a voice in the open doorway.
Mr. Caracas shuffled across the threshold, trailing the scent of ash and orange peel. The cup he held clinked faintly against its saucer, the liquid inside an impossible shade of blue. His slippers made a vaguely judgementalthackwith each step.
“Greymarket’s moody,” the old man said grumpily. “So’s your girl, apparently.”
Sig winced. “She is not—”
“Uh-huh.” Caracas held up a hand. “Spare me the declarations, mothboy.”
Sig inhaled, slow and even, trying not to react. Caracas’s eyes swept the shimmering flora.
