Page 86 of Claimed By the Mothman
“I…tried to be,” he said, utterly deadpan.
Nell stared at him and then let loose a peal of laughter “Oh gods! Youdohave a sense of humor.”
“I do,” he said gravely. “It is apparently calibrated to pastries.”
She shook her head and stepped forward. Hesitantly, she reached up and wrapped her arms around his bare torso. The heat of his skin radiated through her robe, and the hum of the bond brushed against her nerves like a song.
Sig folded his arms around her in return, and one wing lifted, wrapping around her back. He leaned down slightly, murmuring something close to her ear. A wash of sound—rumbles and gentle clicks, thrums woven into a cadence that made her shiver.
“What does that mean?” she asked softly, lifting her face.
He considered for a moment. “It is a morning-time song from beloved to beloved. There is no direct translation. But it means:I have risen, and you are the first thing the light touches in me.”
Her breath hitched.
“Does your kind not have those?” he asked, gently curious.
She flushed, pulling away just slightly. “Not really,” she admitted. “It’s more like,good morning, sexy, or,hope you slept well,or something vague and nonsensical like that.”
She shrugged, the motion a little self-deprecating, a little wistful. “Although Edward never said anything like that. Not after the first few years. It was more like,aren’t you dressed yet?or,looking a little rough there, honey.”
Another laugh. Forced at first, then real. Damn, this felt good. Awkward, but good.
Sig clicked thoughtfully. “Good morning… sexy?” he echoed. It sounded strange coming from him—flat and unsure, like he was testing the weight of the words.
“I like your clicks better.” Nell hugged him tightly again. “Much, much better.”
He churred, pleased.
She pulled away and picked up one of the mugs he’d prepared. It was hot, steamy, and perfect. Then her gaze went to the pastries. He’d purchased them, thinking of her. That alone made her stomach rumble. She picked one up and took a bite. It was divine.
“This Edward,” Sig said quietly. “Your ex-husband. You mentioned him before.”
Nell paused. Lowered the pastry slowly to the plate and looked at the mothman. He was leaning against the counter. The light caught in the delicate lines of his antennae. He looked like someone who wanted to know the shape of every shadow that had ever passed over her.
“We don’t know very much about each other, do we?” she said softly.
He moved to take the second mug. “No,” he agreed. “We do not.” He lifted it with both hands, delicately, as if unsure how much pressure it could take. “But that is unimportant. We shall learn.”
With practiced grace, he brought the cup to his mouth, and his proboscis slid out and dipped into the tea.
Nell flushed, hard. Her thighs clenched beneath the robe as she remembered what that appendage had done last night.
Sig winced slightly and set the cup down. “I have a confession, Nell,” he said, with the solemnity of someone preparing to let loose a ruinous secret. His ruby eyes locked on hers, and his expression was earnest. “I do not enjoy this type of beverage. It tastes of dirt.”
She stared at him.
He misread the expression instantly, his tone hitching in concern. “I do not wish to offend you. But as we are now bonded, I must be honest with you. I—are youlaughing?”
She was absolutely laughing.
Nell covered her face as her shoulders shook. “It tastes like dirt, says the cryptid who brought a literal living salad bowl to dinner!”
“That was adelicacy,”he said, affronted.
She was laughing so hard her sides hurt. And shealreadyhurt, because the sex last night had been very, very good, and she was still deliciously sore, and now this? Tea tastes like dirt?
“Itsighedat me, Sig!” she howled. “One of the leavessighed!”
