Page 95 of Claimed By the Mothman
“Wow!” Elinore said, her voice syrup-thick and falsely sweet. Her overly perfect teeth gleamed blindingly as she smiled, leaning into Nell’s ex-husband’s chest. “This issucha coincidence.”
Nell’s lungs forgot how to function for a moment. Her vision tunneled. Her body remembered this feeling of free fall, like tumbling off a ladder in slow motion.
Edward grinned like he hadn’t shattered her soul nearly two years ago. Like this was all very civil. Like she should be happy for him.
“We’d heard so much about this adorable little market,” he exclaimed, tone breezy. “Had to come see it for ourselves. It’s a kind of celebration day for us.”
“We’re engaged!” Elinore beamed, lifting a manicured hand bearing a diamond so large it looked cursed. “And we’re pregnant!”
Nell wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or run. Or crawl onto Sig’s lap and disappear into his wings.
“Yes,” she said at last. The word felt wrong in her mouth. Brittle. “I saw. Um. Congratulations.”
Edward’s grin sharpened. “We hope you’re doing well. You look…well.”
Nell’s pulse throbbed in her gums. Her throat prickled like it was closing up from the inside. “I’m—good,” she muttered.
Shewasgood. Shewas. Just this morning she had bathed in sunlight and afterglow, sore in all the best ways, a bonded woman wrapped in the scent of sleep and moth wings and love. But now? Now she was seventeen again, standing in a too-tight dress at a party she hadn’t been invited to.
She felt her still-damp hair going frizzy in its clip. The sundress she wore, that she loved, looked juvenile and cheap. There was a tiny hole in the hem that was a jagged reminder that she wasn’t polished enough to stand next to a woman who looked like she’d been born in a Vogue spread.
Nell shifted in her chair, trying to smooth the dress with damp palms, and forced a smile that felt like a lie in her own mouth. “Really good. Really.”
Elinore tilted her head, performative concern curving her lips just so. “What are you doing here?” she cooed brightly. “I didn’t know that farmer’s markets were your scene!”
Nell swallowed hard, her tongue thick. “I live here now,” she managed. “I moved here.”
“Oh!” Elinore gave a tinkling, delighted laugh that was just barely hemmed with mockery. “That’s so wonderful. It’s such a charming little town. You must love it. Especially with all the—” She fluttered her hand at the tables in the cafe. “—local color.”
The strawberries on Nell’s plate fuzzed out of focus. Her skin was too loud and her body felt wrong. This wasexactlywhat it had been like, standing in the doorway of her bedroom that day. Watching Elinore pull the covers up over her perfect body. Watching Edward say,I didn’t expect you home this early.
She could feel herself regressing into that smaller version of herself—the one who wore flattering neutrals and kept her voice gentle and never, ever fought back or demanded to be chosen.
Nell nodded again, unable to stop. “Yep. It’s nice. It’s all good.” The words spilled out, as sour as spoiled wine.
Elinore smiled sweetly. “That’s so brave of you.”
Brave.Like she was a pity project. Like she was some sad story they’d dusted off for brunch conversation.Do you remember Nell? She used to be so vibrant. Now she’s just…brave.
Something cracked behind her sternum. It didn’t matter that she was bonded now. That her thighs still ached from pleasure. That her mark glowed and her soul was singing and someone believed she was worthy of worship. Because beneath those two shark-toothed smiles, she was crumbling into dust.
A chitter, horrifying and beautiful, lanced through the air, as sharp as bones being played like a violin. It scraped through her vertebrae and rattled down her bones, subtle as poison and cold as grave soil.
All around them, the café chatter dulled. Silverware clinked, then silenced. The soft jazz wheezed into stillness. Even the breeze paused and the ever-present, polite background birds forgot how to sing.
Next to her, a figure rose. She looked up.
Up.
Up.
Up.
Sig had risen from his chair with the kind of silence that emptied rooms, pressed against skin and made memories tremble. He now loomed behind her—unfolding, expanding, filling the air with something that was not human and never had been.
The shadow beneath their table twisted and bent upward. The tea in the carafe trembled. Inside the bakery, someone screamed briefly, the sound quickly muffling like it had been pulled under a bed.
Sig Samora. Her cryptid made of wing and vow and vengeance was burning from the inside.
