Page 74 of Claimed By the Mothman
For a moment, everything inside her screamed—and then—
Pulse.A single, soft throb.
The threads lingering around him paused and then, one by one, they spiraled downward and folded themselves back into him, re-threading into skin and sternum and soul.
Tears poured down Nell’s cheeks and fell silently into his shirt. She stayed there, arms locked around him, refusing to let go.
He shuddered. Breathed.
The bond righted. Held. For a breath. And then another.
Finally, Sig stirred, like someone reassembling themselves from scattered pieces.
“The bond…” His voice cracked. “It does not understand nuance.”
A half-sob, half-laugh tore loose from Nell’s chest. “Yeah,” she managed. “I figured that out pretty quickly.”
He looked down at her, his face still wrinkled with the traces of pain that was slowly starting to ease.
“I will try,” he said quietly, “to teach it. To wait. To listen better next time.”
She swallowed, chest hitching. “I’m so sorry, Sig.”
His clawed hand rose and cupped her cheek with exquisite care. “I know,” he murmured.
Her gaze dropped to his lips. Just for a second. Then flicked away again.
Somewhere beneath their feet, behind the walls, or in the marrow of Greymarket Towers themselves, a deeper current stirred. And it, too, chose to wait.
Chapter 14
She couldn’t sleep. She sat curled on the couch in a tangle of blankets and resentment, phone screen glowing beside her.
Elinore, with her breezy confidence and bullet-pointed charm. Elinore, who probably sent color-coded Google Calendar invites for foreplay. Elinore, who was living her perfect life in her perfect house that had been anythingbutperfect.
She should’ve cried harder. Should’ve felt gutted. But most of the pain wasn’t heartbreak.
It was shame. Shame that she didn’t miss him. That the worst ache inside her had nothing to do with what she’d lost.
Sig Samora. The Harbinger. The thing with wings and ruin in his voice.
She squeezed her eyes shut. It didn’t help.
She could feel him in her bones. The way he’d looked at her at the potluck like she was made of light and riddles. The way he’d met her in the hallway, voice cracking like bark under strain, unmaking the bond between them one searing strand at a time.
And how she’d launched forward without thinking. Grabbed him. Clutched him like her body had decided for her. Not because she had decided (no, not yet) but because the idea of losing him had left her trembling.
She didn’t want what she used to want. And what she wanted now…she wasn’t ready to name.
A fresh wave of rage flushed through her. At herself. At Edward. At the godsdamned building. She was not the kind of woman who chased after monsters. She was not the kind of woman who needed to beclaimedto be whole. She was—
On her feet.
She didn’t remember standing. Didn’t remember grabbing her keys. Only the cold rush of air as the hallway door closed behind her. Her bare feet whispered over the carpet.
She reached the elevator. Pressed the button. Her reflection stared back at her from the golden call box—hair a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes too wide.This is a mistake.
The elevator arrived. She stepped through. Pressed the button for floor 14.
