Page 94 of Claimed By the Mothman
“A delicacy,” he exclaimed, delight ringing in his voice. “A treat among my people. Fermented root bark layered with moss paste and—”
“Stop. No more details.”
Sig tilted the skewer toward himself and took a bite. His eyes fluttered closed. His antennae lifted slightly and a pleased chirr of breath escaped him. “Oh. Yes. This batch is transcendent.”
He took another slow chew, then looked at her with such sincerity it made her chest tighten. “I wished to share it with you.”
Well. Damn it to all the hells.
Nell smiled, stepped forward, and opened her mouth slightly. Reverently, Sig lowered the skewer to her mouth, his eyes glowing. Slowly, Nell bent forward, took the tiniest possible bite, and regretted it immediately.
It tasted like licorice-flavored charcoal that had been smoked inside a damp crypt with dead leaves and disappointment. There were textures. Too many textures. One of them squeaked.
She swallowed with visible effort. Sig was watching her like her mouth had become a site of revelation.
“You did not like it,” he said, awestruck.
She coughed politely and resisted the urge to gag. “Nope.”
“But you tried it. For me.”
Nell nodded, eyes watering a little. “Yep”
Sig reached out and cupped the back of her head. “I love you,” he murmured.
Her brain blue-screened at the declaration.
“I love that you tried it,” he clarified, smiling with so much quiet joy it nearly knocked her off balance. “It is an expression of faith. I am deeply moved.”
“Oh,” she breathed. “Okay.”
With a chirr-chuckle, he leaned in and kissed her mouth softly. When he pulled back, his eyes glowed faintly. “And I love you as well, in truth. Not an expression.”
Her breath caught. Her pulse fluttered. “I…maybe…think I love you too?” The words came out tentative, startled, but no less real.
Sig’s hand grazed her cheek. “It is early for you,” he said. “I understand. But yourmaybesings to me, and that is enough.”
—
They wandered until the early afternoon sun pushed them into the shade of a quiet café on the edge of the market. A patio table. Mismatched chairs. A tea kettle and a carafe of too-sweet juice between them. The table legs were uneven, and the sugar bowl looked like it had been crocheted instead of carved. A perfect little pocket of Bellwether normal.
Behind them, a trio of sentient pigeons argued in fluent French. A nearby vendor was selling psychically infused jam with a sign that read:Eat This and Remember Every Lover Who Wronged You. Nell considered buying a jar, but decided against it. Right now, she was basking in sunlight and watching a gentle mothman try to figure out how to politely eat a beignet.
Powdered sugar clung to the edge of Sig’s jaw. His wings were tucked behind him in neat, shimmering lines, and he’d managed to fold himself into the smallest shape possible for the café chair. People stared. Of course they did. But neither Nell nor Sig cared.
Sig reached across the table and brushed a crumb from her chin with one gentle claw. “I will never understand why human food must be both fried and dusted in snow.”
“You loved it,” she said, nudging the last third of the pastry toward him.
“I did not say I objected.” His eyes gleamed, antennae lifting in the dappled sun. Nell laughed, real and unguarded, and Sig’s pupils dilated slightly—
“Nell?”
Her name cracked through the air like a whip.
Everything inside Nell seized. She turned slowly. Mechanically. Like hearing a car crash—you already know what’s been destroyed, but you still have to look.
Edward stood just beyond the little patio gate, one arm draped with casual ownership around a woman who looked like she’d been photoshopped into existence. Flawless linen dress. Honey-glazed hair. A pearl clip that probably cost more than Nell’s monthly rent. The kind of woman who didn’t sweat at farmers markets. The kind of woman Nell used to worry Edward wanted because, apparently, he did.
