Page 23 of Claimed By the Mothman (Greymarket Towers #1)

“I have brought a salad,” Sig intoned, holding out the bowl.

The mark between Nell’s thighs pulsed in a very unhelpful suggestion and her body suddenly remembered everything: his mouth, his hands, the way he’d thrust into her with a hunger so raw she could taste it.

Was her lipstick smudged? Did it matter? Why did she care if it mattered?

She hated him. She wanted him. She wanted to crawl under the table and scream into a napkin.

His eyes locked to hers, and the faintest flare flickered before he blinked it back to dull.

Jem and Hollis burst back into the room—Jem visibly delighted, Hollis looking like he’d aged ten years in ten seconds.

“Sig! How wonderful that you were able to make it,” Jem chirped, sweeping forward to take the bowl from Sig’s hands. “We needed something…oh.”

Her hands shifted ever so slightly, like the bowl had changed weight in her grasp. Then, with the bright, brittle confidence of someone determined to survive her own dinner party, she carried it to the table and set it down just a little too carefully.

“There we go,” she said, voice a half-octave higher than before. “Centerpiece material!”

It was the worst salad Nell had ever seen. Long, pale stalks curled in a way that suggested sentience. Something glossy and violet glistened beneath them, and a single sprig of green perched on top like a garnish or a warning. One of the stalks let out a soft sigh.

“Lovely,” Hollis said in a strangled tone.

“Very…seasonal,” Jem offered.

Sig turned toward their hosts. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he said with solemn grace, inclining his head. “It is an honor to be invited.”

Then he moved to the table, pulled out the chair directly across from Nell, and sat.

Their eyes met again—just for a breath—and her heart tried to beat out of her body. She tore her gaze away and stared hard at her plate. Then at Goldie, who caught her gaze instantly, still flushed from flirtation but now absolutely thriving on the drama.

Trade places with me? Nell mouthed, barely moving her lips.

Goldie raised her wineglass in mock salute. Not a chance, she mouthed back.

At the head of the table, Jem raised her eyebrows meaningfully, practically vibrating with matchmaking triumph. Hollis, at the other end, looked like he’d bitten into a lemon and wasn’t allowed to spit it out.

“Shall we?” Jem said, lifting her fork like a baton.

The dinner resumed like a train being forced back onto its tracks.

Sig was silent across from her. He shifted slightly and his wings rustled faintly, so soft Nell almost convinced herself she imagined it. He didn’t eat, but merely observed the others around him, his eyes swinging back to lock on Nell more than was comfortable.

Jem, ever the gracious host and social airbag, jumped in with a too-bright smile. “So, Sig! This salad…it’s fascinating! Is it traditional?”

Sig inclined his head. “It is a courtship dish.”

Nell inhaled wine.

Ezra coughed dramatically into his napkin, shoulders shaking.

Carol, clearly sensing the slow-motion disaster, leaned in with a warm smile. “Oh, I remember now—Dev and I met Sig at that panel on spiritual anomalies, didn’t we, darling?”

Dev lit up. “That’s right! You were the guest observer who corrected the speaker on the properties of soul-fractured ley currents in an incredibly polite way.”

“Yes,” Sig said gravely. “He was about to trigger a recursive harmonic collapse. I thought it would be discourteous to let him die in front of his peers.”

Ezra grinned. “Oh, I like him,” he stage-whispered to Goldie. “He’s got bite.”

Hollis took a long sip of wine, stared into the middle distance like he was praying to be removed from his own home.

Sig’s eyes flicked briefly to Nell’s plate. Her fork. Her hands. To her face.

Nell dropped her eyes and pretended to find something fascinating in her napkin. She picked at her couscous like it might reveal an escape hatch if she nudged it hard enough.

“Are you going to eat that or just seduce it slowly?” Goldie whispered.

Nell shook her head.

Goldie—bless her and damn her—started eating directly off Nell’s plate without breaking stride.

Across the table, Ezra flashed her a smile that could’ve melted glaciers. “Are you always this charming,” he asked smoothly, “or is it just the lamb bringing out your best behavior?”

Goldie winked. “Wait ‘til we get to dessert.”

Carol and Dev valiantly tried to keep conversation flowing—weather, leyline shifts, something about haunted rental rates in the Old Quarter—but Nell barely tracked a word of it.

Sig still hadn’t spoken to her. His gaze kept drifting back, soft but unrelenting. Watching.

Nell inhaled. Braced herself. Be brave, dummy. She leaned forward, voice bright with forced casualness. “So…you brought a salad?”

A small smile crossed Sig’s inhuman face. “Yes. It is traditional. Much like your human... chocolate-covered strawberries?”

She made a strangled noise that might have been a laugh. “But… um… why is it moving?”

Said salad currently was stirring like the death throes of something that probably once had legs.

Sig glanced at it. “It is meant to encourage inner sight,” he said simply.

“Hollis,” Goldie said brightly, leaping in with the subtlety of a brass band.“this glaze on the lamb? Blood orange? Because wow.”

“Sure,” Hollis said in a voice that suggested he was slowly dying inside.

With a whisper of wings, Sig leaned in slightly. “You are beautiful tonight, Nell,” he said softly, almost reverently.

Nell drew in a stuttering breath. “Oh. I—” Her brain scrambled. Every word she’d ever known went running for the exits.

“I am sorry.” Sig’s expression flickered. “Was that not the right thing to say?”

“No—I mean—” Nell swallowed. “It’s just—I don’t know what to do with it.”

His gaze flicked to the shimmering scarf draped across her shoulder. She fought the urge to clutch it tighter, pull it up like armor, and disappear beneath it.

Sig looked down at his hands and folded them carefully at the edge of the table. “I apologize. I did not know it would be like this, beginning a bond without trust. This is… not easy for me, either.”

Goldie, ever the escape hatch, flashed a grin at Ezra that was all teeth and sunshine. “So, tell me—do you always show up to dinner parties looking like trouble, or is that just for us ?”

Ezra’s answering smile was slow and sinful. “Only when I hope to stay for dessert.”

Dev leaned toward Carol, whispered something low. She snorted into her wine, elbowed him hard enough to make his glass slosh, then reached for her napkin, eyes still sparkling.

It was a perfect dinner party, if you ignored the fact that Nell was two seconds away from either combusting or sobbing directly into her half-eaten-by-Goldie lamb.

She set down her fork with surgical precision. “Excuse me,” she said, her voice almost steady. “I’ll—I'll be right back.”

She stood too fast. The room tilted, and she fled toward the bathroom.

—

The bathroom was warm, dim, and smelled like rose soap. One of the wall sconces was flickering faintly—a normal flicker, Nell was relieved to see. She gripped the edge of the sink and stared at her reflection. Her lipstick was still perfect, the dress still devastating. Her green eyes were glassy.

She was not going to cry. Not here. Not in Jem’s very fancy bathroom where the walls were probably literally listening.

The door creaked. “It’s me,” came Goldie’s voice. “Don’t throw anything at me, please.”

Nell didn’t answer. Goldie slipped inside and shut the door behind her.

“Well,” she said lightly, “that’s going about as well as I expected.”

Nell let out a ragged breath. “I’m going to kill Jem. And then you. This is a nightmare.”

“It is a romantic nightmare,” Goldie corrected. “Very different. Much more cinematic.”

“I can’t do this,” Nell breathed.

Goldie threw her arms around her friend, leaning her chin on Nell’s unbitten shoulder. “Yes, you can,” she says, looking into Nell’s eyes in the mirror, her brown to Nell’s green.

Horrifyingly, Nell felt tears start to well in her eyes. “I want to be furious,” she whispered. “I am furious. He keeps looking at me with this…I don’t know, with such intent , and I hate it but also I think…”

“Deep breath,” Goldie said, and pressed a kiss to her temple. “You just have to survive dessert. Then you can scream into a pillow, write angry poetry, whatever helps. Now, dry your eyes before your mascara runs.”

Nell exhaled. Nodded once. They returned to the table together.

—

The dessert plates were barely cleared when Jem clapped her hands and declared, “Aperitifs in the living room! And I insist we play charades.”

Goldie made a soft sound of alarm and lowered her wine glass. “Oh no.”

Ezra leaned back in his chair, grinning. “Oh yes. ”

Jem was already bustling into the next room, pulling out a basket of folded prompts and directing Dev to light the fireplace. Hollis followed with the air of a man resigned to his fate.

Nell stood, intending to make her exit. Her scarf was still in place. Her lipstick had survived. She could still salvage her dignity if she left now.

“Just one round,” Jem pleaded, rounding and catching Nell’s gaze with the intensity of someone who’d cursed crops for less. “Come on! Teams of four! Please!”

“Eight people,” Ezra said gleefully. “Perfect. We’ll do battle for honor.”

With the solemnity of a condemned woman accepting her fate, Nell downed her glass of wine in one long, steady pull.

Goldie latched onto her arm. ““You cannot abandon me to charades. Remember The Glass Menagerie ? Sophomore year? I mimed a nervous breakdown for three minutes before Mr. Allen stopped me. I need a partner who speaks fluent panic. Please.”

“I hate you,” Nell muttered.

“You love me.”