Page 21 of Claimed By the Mothman (Greymarket Towers #1)

T he first days had been unbearable. He had not left the apartment.

Not because he feared her, but because he feared himself.

The bond had howled through him—loud, primal, unfinished. His body throbbed with it, every instinct honed to one unbearable truth: she was nearby, and she was not his .

He had clawed the door frame the first night. In a moment of clarity, he had pushed the couch across the entryway like a barricade and pinned himself to the floor with gravity charms just to stay still .

Once—just once—he’d made it to the hallway before coming to his senses, panting, trembling, mouth half-open with need. He’d slunk back inside his apartment before anyone could see.

I am not an animal , he reminded himself over and over. I am a being of reason and choice.

We do not rut without consent. We are not feral. We live in a society.

It had not helped.

Only time dulled the edge, slightly. Just enough for him to think without the haze of lust, to breathe without shaking, to meditate without imagining the taste of her skin or the way her voice had cracked when she told him to leave her alone.

The bond still hummed between them like a live wire, but he would not take. He would not beg. He would wait for her to make her choice, even if it drove him mad.

–

Sig sat cross-legged on the floor of his apartment, palms up, surrounded by the soft glow of resonance-reactive flora. As he breathed, the vines above the window sagged visibly, one leaf curling inward with a sigh.

“You should apologize to the building,” said a voice in the open doorway.

Mr. Caracas shuffled across the threshold, trailing the scent of ash and orange peel. The cup he held clinked faintly against its saucer, the liquid inside an impossible shade of blue. His slippers made a vaguely judgemental thack with each step.

“Greymarket’s moody,” the old man said grumpily. “So’s your girl, apparently.”

Sig winced. “She is not—”

“Uh-huh.” Caracas held up a hand. “Spare me the declarations, mothboy.”

Sig inhaled, slow and even, trying not to react. Caracas’s eyes swept the shimmering flora.

“Why are you sitting in a ring of vines like a teenager about to scry their future?”

“I am selecting an offering,” Sig said evenly.

“Well,” Caracas grunted, sloshing his drink slightly, “thank the gods you’re not doing anything dramatic.”

Another voice piped in, small and delighted. “Is it for Miss Nell?” Theo peeked around Mr. Caracas’ bulk, clutching a small orb of bioluminescence. Before Sig could respond, the little cryptid darted down the hall.

Caracas didn’t move. “You gonna give her something that makes sense, or something that’ll make her call the front desk for pest control?”

“I am building a resonance-appropriate bouquet,” Sig muttered, rubbing the space between his eyes. “A symbolic one. I’ve researched offerings from three caste traditions. I know what she responds to.”

“Hmm,” said Mr. Caracas. “What she responds to, or what you want her to respond to?”

Before Sig could answer, the sound of tiny feet slapped back into the room.

Theo reappeared, breathless and beaming, holding out a single soft object pinched delicately between two fingers.

It was a small, curled shell, shimmering faintly with iridescent opal tones.

One side had been hand-painted with a lopsided heart and a flower that might’ve once been a star.

“Give her this! ” Theo chirped, pressing it into Sig’s hand. “It’s my favorite, and I think she’ll like it too. Are you gonna marry her? Can I be your ring bearer? I already have a vest!”

Theo flung himself forward and hugged Sig around the neck and then was off like a rocket, squeaking with delight.

“…I don’t think she’s ready for weddings,” Sig said faintly, staring dumbly at the shell in his palm.

Caracas snorted. “You’re not either, mothboy.” He turned and shuffled out the door, muttering something about how the building used to be quiet before everyone started falling in love and leaking resonance all over the goddamn floor.

Then, over his shoulder: “Put something yellow in it. Human females like yellow. At least, that’s what they show on Days of Our Lives. ”

“What is—”

“Look it up,” Caracas called back, disappearing down the hallway. “And don’t be stingy with the twine.”

Sig stared at the space where the old cryptid had been for a long moment, then exhaled slowly.

His claws hovered over the bundles of dried and prepared materials spread before him like sacred tarot: a tuft of silver seedpods ( hope, potential ), a polished loop of bone etched with spiral glyphs ( returning breath, invitation ), a piece of dreamvine knotted in a circle ( continuity, longing ), a single violet feather ( comfort, transformation ).

He added Theo’s iridescent shell—crooked heart, smeared star and all.

And, with a sigh, a single yellow blossom, plucked earlier from the growth in the community garden. Bright and delicate and wholly not-traditional. Caracas had a point: she wasn’t from the Broodhome.

He carefully wrapped the bouquet in a piece of soft cloth woven from reed-stem pulp, and tied it together with twine steeped in rosewater and duskleaf. He sat with it for a moment until the bundle felt settled.

Gently, he rose. She was at work. He did not have to see her. Did not have to risk the bond flaring wildly beneath his skin, dragging him into something he could not control. This was safer. Quieter. Measured. And if she threw the offering away, he would not know.

He descended to the fourth floor without incident and paused before her door. Then, with a sigh, he placed the bundle gently on the mat, the twine glinting faintly in the corridor light.

Later—just as dusk settled—he returned to the shadows of the hallway and waited.

She came home. His heart soared at the sight of her, an instinctive lurch he could not suppress. He did not move. Did not breathe.

Nell paused, her head tilting. She looked sharply towards the corner where he perched, her eyes narrowing. He shrank further into the shadow, pulse thundering in his temples.

She could not see him, but still—he would not risk it.

After a moment, she shook herself. Adjusted the strap on her shoulder. The clink of her keys filled the silence.

She stepped forward and saw the bundle.

She bent to pick it up, and the bond stirred. It hummed low in his chest, a lullaby of longing.

Confusion, then suspicion, wafted across her face. Then something gentler, more wounded, more like sorrow. Sig noticed, in the low light, freckles dusting the curve of her cheek like tiny constellations.

The bond crooned. He did not call out.

She did not smile, but she went inside, still clutching his bouquet in one hand.

Sig stood a long time after the door shut, one hand pressed to the wall, listening to the building breathe around her.

—

The Special Collections sorting room was unusually cooperative today, which meant the books weren’t biting, the floating scrolls weren’t phasing through the walls, and only one tome had tried to re-shelve itself .

Nell was grateful. She needed the quiet.

It had been a week since the claiming. The urgency in her blood had cooled, like embers buried under ash.

Her body wasn’t screaming anymore. It just hummed sometimes—low and strange and constant—like background static she’d learned to live with.

The mark between her thighs no longer pulsed like a threat.

It ached quietly, like a bruise half-forgotten.

Her anger had ebbed, too. She staunchly refused to give it up, but it had dulled, muted by time and exhaustion and the slow, creeping realization that maybe the whole thing actually had been about saving instead of taking.

She still hated the whole situation. Maybe even more so with that realization, because it made everything harder and less justifiably furious.

Now she was left with quieter, confusing feelings.

She caught herself looking at the button for his floor when she stepped into the elevator.

She hated how her hand lingered on the rail of the staircase, or how sometimes she dreamed about the feel of his claws and woke up feeling lonely instead of scared.

She’d tried to throw herself into work. Yesterday she’d reclassified an entire cart of misfiled grief manuscripts just to stay busy. But every time her hands stilled, her treacherous brain wandered back to him and to the strange, oddly beautiful bouquet she’d found on her doorstep.

Today, she and Goldie sat on opposite ends of a long velvet-padded bench beneath a skylight. Between them, a pile of oddly-shaped returns teetered like a tiny, magical Leaning Tower of Pisa.

Goldie sipped her iced chai, eyes dancing. “So, about your broody mothman.”

Nell groaned, dragging her hands down her face. “Please don’t call him that.”

“Sorry, sorry. About your emotionally tormented cryptid with apparently a love language of foliage.”

“That’s really not helping.”

Goldie twirled her straw innocently. “What did you do with the bouquet?”

“It’s…” Nell hesitated. “On my counter.”

“Oooh.” Goldie grinned. “So we’re not throwing away the weird gift?”

“I didn’t know what to do with it! What if it curses me if I toss it? What if it calls him like a bat signal?”

“Or,” Goldie said, drawing out the word like she was speaking to a particularly adorable but confused puppy, “what if it just means he’s trying? In an awkward, possibly-traumatized way?”

Nell picked at a loose thread on her cardigan, staring at the return cart like it might offer an answer. “I don’t know what he wants. I don’t know what I want. I didn’t get to choose any of this.”

Goldie’s expression shifted. The teasing faded from her voice.“Do you want to?”

Nell sucked in a breath. “What?”

“Choose,” Goldie said. “Even if it’s messy and terrifying.”

Nell looked down at her hands. “I’m afraid to,” she whispered, the honesty ripping from her like a prayer.

There was a long silence between them. One of the books on the bench sighed.

Then Goldie perked up like a cat who’d just spotted a doomed canary. “You know what would help? Jem and Hollis invited us to the dinner party this weekend, remember?” She leaned in, eyes glittering. “You should invite him.”

“I can’t do that!” Nell wailed, and one of the books on the shelving cart toppled over in shock. “It’s not my party! That’s like hijacking someone else’s wedding to propose!”

Goldie waved a hand, unconcerned. “Details. Jem lives for drama. I’ll message her—she’ll think it’s romantic.” She wagged a finger at her friend with an evil grin on her face. “And I notice you didn’t say no, absolutely not.”

“No, absolutely not,” Nell hissed, heat blooming in her cheeks. “This is not romantic, it’s horrifying! It’s emotionally perilous and socially irresponsible and what if he says yes? ”

Goldie just grinned. “Then you wear something flirty and emotionally complicated and make it his problem.”

Nell threw a paperclip at her. Goldie dodged it effortlessly, still sipping her chai like victory had never tasted so sweet.

—

He had not meant to go to the community lounge. He had intended only to pass through and return a borrowed book to Mr. Caracas and vanish again before the couches started sighing or the wall sconces whispered their unsolicited opinions.

But as he entered—

“Dammit!”

Nell’s voice rang out across the lounge, bright with frustration and barely-hidden laughter. She was seated beside Catalina Vess, surrounded by yarn and hooks and what might have once been an attempt at a scarf, but now resembled a fibrous octopus in cardiac arrest.

“I’m doing it wrong again, aren’t I?” Nell said, huffing.

Catalina gave her a look of gentle horror. “You’re experimenting. I love it.”

“I’m failing . I hate it.” In a flash of melodrama, she flung the yarny mess over her shoulder, where it struck Sig squarely in the chest.

The room stilled. Catalina looked up slowly, eyes wide. “Oh, my.”

Nell whipped around in horror. Sig stood there, holding a book at his side in one hand and the tangled mass of yarn clutched in his other like a small, defeated animal.

Nell’s face went crimson. “Oh my gods.”

Sig stared at the yarn. Then at her. With slow precision, stepped forward and held it out like an offering.

“You threw this,” he said, deadpan.

Nell let out a strangled noise and covered her face. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It is textured,” he added solemnly, glancing down at the yarn with a faint tilt of his head, as though it had personally offended him.

Catalina choked on a laugh.

From across the room, Mr. Caracas muttered from a recliner without looking up, “Young love is a hazard to common areas.”

Sig met Nell’s eyes. She didn’t look away.

“Thank you,” she said, voice soft now. Almost breathless. She reached out and took the yarn hesitantly from his hands. Her lower lip tucked quickly between her teeth and his chest seized at the gesture. “And…thank you for the bouquet, by the way.”

His breath caught and he nodded once, the gesture too formal for the setting, and turned to leave.

He had not expected her to keep it, much less speak of it.

He walked away, holding the faintest curl of hope between his ribs like a flame cupped against the wind.