Page 76 of Claimed By the Mothman
After a moment, he crossed the room to stand beside her. She looked up at him fully, her eyes shining with held-back tears. Carefully, he tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His hand stayed where it was a moment, hovering, desperate to touch but unwilling to make the move.
“What can I do, Nell?” he whispered. “Please. Tell me how to help ease your heart. I cannot bear to see you hurting.”
With a sigh, she closed her eyes, swallowed hard, and leaned ever so slightly into his palm.
“I don’t know,” she said.
What steadied him when his world tilted sideways? He made a clicking sound and shifted his feet.
“May I show you something?” he asked, delicately, almost afraid to speak.
She hesitated. Then nodded.
He tilted his head and clicked softly. “I will need to carry you.”
After a breath, she nodded again, smaller this time.
With as much gentleness as he could manage, he bent and oh, so delicately, lifted her in his arms.
She tensed, but only for a moment. Then, slowly, almost shyly, she wound her arms around his neck and leaned her cheek against his chest.
Sig stepped out onto the balcony, wings already pulling loose from his back, the velvet rustle as low and intimate as fabric sliding across skin.
She was in his arms. She was in hisarms. His blood sang with it—thick and hot andancient—and he felt like he could breathe more fully while not being able to get enough air at all.
She blinked against the night breeze. “Um…Sig? What are you doing?”
He stepped forward to the edge.
“Sig.”
He bent his legs. Flared his wings wide. And leapt.
“No—!” she shrieked, arms snapping tight around his neck in blind panic as the world dropped out from under them.
Air screamed past them. Her heartbeat pounded against his. He beat his wings. Hard.
They rose.
The sky above Bellwether was like a painting. Clouds peeled back like curtains. The moon hung low and gold over the skyline. Streetlights pulsed like heartbeat trails far below. The wind sang around them, cold and sharp and bracing.
Sig flew in wide arcs at first, letting her adjust. Her heart was hammering a rabbit’s rhythm against his chest. But her breath was coming in delighted gasps now, not panic. Her arms loosened their terror, slipped down, one hand gripping the collar of his shirt while the other curled into his chest.
Without warning, she punched him. A soft thump against his sternum, barely more than a tap.
“Youmaniac,” she choked, breathless with a mix of awe and indignation. “If youeverdo something like that again, I swear to all gods, I will have Goldie curse you into next week.”
Her laugh wobbled, shaky and half-hysterical. He turned his head slightly, just enough for his voice to reach her.
“Understood.” But she was smiling now.
The city rose to meet them in soft, glowing layers.
He showed her the rooftops—flat and slanted, both the crumbling and the new. Steam curled from old brick chimneys like offerings to the sky. Greymarket’s rooftop garden came into view, its raised beds glowing faintly in the dark. He could smell basil, rosemary, and the green tang of tomato plants. A flock of moths stirred lazily around a lamppost as they passed, their wings glinting like coins in the moonlight.
He glanced down and saw her face, green eyes wide, strands of hair pulled loose and flickering around her face. An unfettered look of joy.
He banked sharply, once, just enough to startle her. She squeaked, instinctively clutching to him, burying her face against his chest. He very nearly did it as second time just to feel her grab him like that.
