Page 93 of Claimed By the Mothman
She jerked her hand back. “Sorry—was that—?”
“It is very intimate,” he said, voice breathy. “But not unwelcome.”
Oh.Oh.
Sig turned and his eyes swept over Nell’s dress. He gave an appraising nod. “This garment is acceptable. It is soft and will allow continued access to your mark.”
Nell smiled and pulled a denim jacket from her closet. “You make it sound like you’re evaluating thigh accessibility.”
“I am.”
“Glad to know we’re aligned on priorities.”
Sig stood and stepped close to her. “Access,” he murmured, eyes dropping to her lips, “is sacred.” He lifted one hand and gently stroked the line of her throat.
Nell drew a deep breath and pointed to his shirt in an effort to clear her head. “You’ve gotta show me how you put this on at some point. Is there a wing-stretch? A special shimmy?”
He tilted his head. “I promise to show you how I put it on…if you agree to take it off.”
Her knees buckled. “Damn,” she whispered.
Sig smiled in a slow, ruinous way. “Later. After the date.”
—
Bellwether’s farmer’s market was alive with sound, scent, and the slightly chaotic energy of early summer.
Handwoven tents stretched in bright, mismatched rows. Produce gleamed like treasure: baskets of strawberries and nectarines, glossy tomatoes and cornucopias of sweet corn. A trio of stringed instruments played a winding tune that subtly harmonized with passing footsteps and vendor calls.
Nell and Sig walked side by side, constantly touching. Sometimes it was the brush of his knuckles against hers, a casual drag that made her breath stutter in ways she refused to let herself think about in public. Sometimes his hand rested lightly at the small of her back, like a promise or a shield. Once, it was a clawed palm possessively cupping her hip before he withdrew with an apologetic click.
She didn’t call him out for it. Shelikedit. Every time he touched her, the mark between her thighs hummed like a second pulse.
“I enjoy this market,” Sig said as they passed a stall overflowing with braided herbs and something that might have been sentient mushrooms. His eyes gleamed, antennae twitching. “It smells of yeast and pollination.”
“That’s weirdly accurate, and also kinda gross.”
He turned his head towards her. “Would you prefer I say it smells like sweating stone fruit and overheated humans?”
“I mean. I guess it does.”
They passed a booth filled with handmade candles carved into protective runes. Another boasted vintage books and delicate paper charms that twitched faintly in the breeze, their corners curling as if whispering secrets.
A determined-looking woman hawked pickled everything—onions, cherries, garlic, whole peaches in neon brine—and Sig insisted on examining each jar with grave attention.
“You arenoteating the radioactive peaches,” Nell said, steering him away by the elbow.
“They are not radioactive, beloved,” he said, sounding offended. “They are preserved with experimental technique.”
“That’s worse. You know that, right?”
He made a disappointed chuff but didn’t argue.
At another booth, Sig stopped to confer with a vendor who was either cryptid or very magically altered. Their face shimmered slightly, like something only half-anchored in the visible spectrum, and they spoke in low, melodic tones she couldn’t decipher.
When Sig returned to her side, he was beaming and holding something on a skewer that steamed ominously. It was brownish-green, glistening in a way that suggested it had once been part of something alive, but not recently.
“What is that?”
