Page 63 of Claimed By the Mothman
“Nope,” she muttered fiercely, yanking open the cabinet. “Not sex. Not spiraling.Just tea.”
She opened a cupboard with more force than necessary. She needed to get him out of her head before she did something truly unhinged, like knock on his door and beg him to ravage her again.
“Godsdamn it,” she snarled, whirling around to pick up a teacup and saw a square of pale parchment on the counter. It hadn’t been there last night. She wassureof it.
Carefully, like it might combust in her hands, she peeled the cup away and unfolded the paper. It smelled faintly like dusk and dust and something sweetly spiced.
Her eyes scanned the delicate, inhuman script:Do you prefer bergamot dried or fresh?
Her breath caught. She ran her thumb over the folded edge. It felt… weird. Like it had once been part of something living.
She should throw it away. She shouldburnit.
Instead, she pressed it to her lips.
And then—blushing furiously—she tucked it into her junk drawer.
She didn’t need bergamot. She needed a lobotomy.
But gods help her, she wanted to write back.
—
The garden always breathed easier after rain. City rain, yes, but the soil didn’t seem to mind. It released itself in scent, exhaling something ancient beneath the planter boxes and trellised vines.
Sig pressed his claws into the damp earth. The plants were singing to him—soft, sleepy songs that said:we are here, we are living, we are part of this world.It soothed him.
The ache inside him was still hungry, still hot beneath the sternum. But leashed, now. He was still ashamed at how he’d come apart last night like a youngling in heat. Still, it had quieted his primal urges enough that he could function.
Even as her laugh haunted the back of his ears, even as the memory of her—flushed, delighted,wanting to climb him like a tree—shook him loose.
He closed his eyes. Steadied himself.
A breeze stirred the rosemary, and Sig inhaled instinctively. Grateful.
“You’re up early.”
Sig glanced over his shoulder.
Carol stood at the garden gate, wrapped in a lavender shawl. A pair of gardening shears glinted in her hand like secrets she intended to cut free.
“So are you,” he said.
She arched a brow behind her sunglasses. “My herbs won’t prune themselves. What’s your excuse?”
“I needed the sky.”
Carol’s expression softened slightly. She stepped closer and began trimming the rosemary with surgical precision.
“You know,” she said, tone light, “I’ve met Harbingers before.”
Sig stiffened. Just slightly. The bond hummed once in his chest, then stilled.
“They don’t usually attend dinner parties,” she went on. “Or participate in charades. Or…” She sniffed delicately. “Bond to humans.”
She shot him a look over her glasses—too sharp, too knowing. For just a moment, Sig was reminded that Carol, though human, had lived at Greymarket Towers long enough to collect the scent of otherness like dust on old books.
He ducked his head. “I did not mean it. It was too soon.”
