Page 25 of Claimed By the Mothman (Greymarket Towers #1)

She switched tactics. She mimed carrying something heavy, then spun in a slow, deliberate circle. She stared up at the ceiling, then down at the floor. Then back at the ceiling. She gestured to her chest, then waved both arms like she was trying to signal an airplane.

“What are you doing?” Dev called from the other team.

“She’s communicating with the void,” Goldie said solemnly. “Let her work.”

“I’m trying to be conceptual!” Nell shouted. She dropped to the floor, laid down flat, and started dragging herself forward inch by inch with one arm.

Sig tilted his head.

“Worm!” Ezra shouted. “Worm with feelings!”

“Almost!” Nell gasped.

Sig sat forward suddenly. “Grief.”

Nell pointed at him, then flung both arms open.

“Existential crisis!” Goldie shouted.

“Yes!” Nell cried just as the timer buzzed.

There was a long silence. Then a wave of chaotic cheering.

“That was beautiful,” Ezra declared, eyes shining. “I have never been so confused or so seen.”

She flopped back on the carpet, gasping. “That’s it. I’m done. I’ve peaked.”

“Team One: three and a half,” Jem announced. “Team Two: two.”

“I need a drink,” Nell mumbled from the floor.

“You are a drink,” Goldie said.

Team Two scrambled to catch up. Carol was up next, and while she managed to successfully mime “conga line” with surprising flair, it took nearly the full timer for her team to guess it.

“Okay,” Jem conceded, fanning herself with a throw pillow. “We’ll allow it. Team One: three and a half. Team Two: three.”

“Neck and neck,” Ezra murmured dramatically, even though it wasn’t.

—

The game continued on, becoming more and more ridiculous.

There were valiant efforts. There were absolute disasters.

Ezra tried to act out “existential dread” again and was told to sit down.

Dev knocked over a side table attempting “interpretive dance.” At one point, Jem and Hollis performed what could only be described as a romantic tragedy involving two potholders and a spatula, and no one dared ask what the prompt had been.

It was neck and neck until the very end—seven rounds of escalating nonsense, shouted guesses, and theatrical collapses—but eventually, they called it.

The score?

A draw.

No one cared.

Everyone was too drunk to count properly, and when Ezra tried to make an impassioned case for a tiebreaker round, Jem hurled a pillow at his head and declared, “The game is dead. Long live the game.”

Goldie collapsed onto the rug in a heap of limbs and laughter, giggling so hard she wheezed. Ezra hovered beside her like a devoted wildlife documentarian, narrating her downfall in his best BBC nature voice.

“Here we see the rare Goldie Flynn in her natural habitat—drunk, disoriented, and attempting to merge with the floor.”

Carol and Dev had claimed the velvet love seat, their legs comfortably entwined. Carol’s head rested on her husband’s shoulder as he stroked her arm in slow, sleepy arcs. The fireplace glowed low and steady.

Hollis and Sig had disappeared into the kitchen. Nell wasn’t sure when that happened. She was definitely drunk now. She took another slow sip of wine, letting it sit on her tongue before swallowing.

Across the room, Ezra leaned in to whisper something into Goldie’s ear. She laughed and swatted at him with a lazy hand.

Nell didn’t notice Jem until the woman was already there, easing down beside her with practiced grace.

“Don’t kill me,” Jem said, voice low and easy.

“I make no promises,” Nell slurred.

The two sat in silence. From the kitchen came the sound of soft clatter, a faint hiss of steam.

“I didn’t expect him to come,” Jem said at last. “I really didn’t.”

Nell kept her eyes on the fire. “I did.”

“Did you want him to?” Jem glanced sideways, gentle.

Nell felt the words in her chest before she found them in her mouth. “I didn’t want him to not. ”

Jem nodded, slow and sure, like that made perfect sense.

“He was sweet,” Nell said, surprised by the sound of her own voice. It came out softer than she expected. “To Goldie. And with Carol and Dev. Even Ezra.”

Jem smiled, a quiet curve of understanding. “That’s the trick with the real ones, isn’t it? They’re not just who they are with you. They’re still them everywhere else.”

Nell’s throat tightened. “I just feel like…” She trailed off, chewing on the words like they were too large to swallow. “I missed the part where I got to decide anything. It’s not fair.”

“It’s not,” Jem agreed softly. “But it’s also… not nothing. ”

Nell stood, swaying slightly. “I should go,” she said carefully, trying not to slur.

Sig appeared at her side, Standing at the edge of the light like he wasn’t sure he belonged in it. “I will walk with you,” he said simply.

No one said anything, but everyone watched. Nell lifted her chin. “Okay.”

Jem hugged her goodbye like she was trying to slip an apology into her bones. Hollis kissed her cheek and murmured, “You’re tougher than you think.”

Then she and Sig stepped out into the hallway.

—

The quiet in the hallway felt too deep. Like the building itself was holding its breath.

His hand was on her back, and she tried not to register it in the fifteen second walk from Jem and Hollis’ apartment to her apartment door.

“I’m fine,” Nell said when Sig steadied her. “I’m just full of lamb, and regret, and many glasses of wine that lied about their strength.”

They reached her door, and she fumbled in her bag for her keys, swearing under her breath. Her balance wasn’t exactly optimal—she swayed, bumped the door frame with her hip. His other hand caught her elbow, gentle and steady, anchoring her before she could really stumble.

A soft, embarrassed giggle escaped her. “You were more social than I thought you’d be,” she said, still digging through her bag. “Charades. Cleaning the kitchen. Who even are you?”

The keys slipped from her fingers with a clatter.

He crouched smoothly and retrieved them, his fingers brushing hers as he placed them back in her palm.

“I was observing,” he said quietly. “And participating. I wished to understand how your friends orbit.”

She blinked at him, soft and off-guard. “That’s sweet.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said. And because she was tipsy and warm and full of something she wasn’t quite ready to name, she kissed her hand, rose to her tiptoes, and pressed it to his cheek.

“There,” she said, laughing a little at herself. “For effort.”

Sig’s pupils expanded. His expression didn’t change, not in any human way, but she felt it—felt the bond stretch taut between them. The curve of his cheek beneath her palm was warm .

Nell tilted her head back. “You’re so tall,” she muttered. “Like—how did that even work when you fucked me on the table?”

Silence. Vast, canyon-deep silence.

Her eyes widened. Her breath caught. “Oh no,” she whispered. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

Sig’s jaw twitched. His eyes, already luminous, had gone very bright now. “If it helps…” He said in a voice so low and polite it was almost obscene, “I have also replayed the logistics several times. It remains… remarkable.”

She made a sound like a dying mouse and covered her face with both hands.

“Gods,” she groaned. “I’m going to turn into mist. Just dissolve. Float away. Die. ”

He caught her shoulder and she absolutely ignored the shiver that climbed her spine. “I would prefer you didn’t,” he said gently.

“What?” she blinked up at him, dazed.

“Die.”

She let out a breathy, wine-laced laugh. “I mean from shame, you lunatic.”

“Ah,” he said, with complete solemnity. “An internal death.”

Her cheeks flamed. “I hate you,” she whispered, but her voice betrayed her. It didn’t sound like hate at all. It sounded like she might cry. Or kiss him. Or both.

“You kissed your hand,” he said, very seriously, “before pressing it to my cheek. Does that constitute hate among humans?”

Her stomach flipped. “Stop being cute.”

“I am not trying to be,” he said, and somehow that made it worse.

“Well, you’re succeeding anyway,” she muttered, and jabbed a finger into his chest. “You know what else? You’re kind of hot when you’re annoying.”

A beat unspooled between them.

“It’s so unfair. You’ve got this whole death omen with unexpected manners thing happening, and it’s…it’s a lot.”

His antennae twitched once. “You think I am… a lot?”

“I think I want to climb you like a tree,” she said, very clearly, not slurring whatsoever. “And also never speak to you again. So yes.”

Sig didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Didn’t laugh. Just stood there, like if he moved even an inch, she might collapse, or he might.

And then Nell did something deeply, deeply stupid.

She leaned forward and pressed her forehead to his chest. Her hands stayed limp at her sides, but her whole body softened against him.

“I should go inside,” she mumbled into his shirt.

His hand touched her back so gently she thought maybe she imagined it.

“Yes,” he said. The word vibrated through his chest, and she felt it deep and low, like a second heartbeat thrumming beneath her skin.

“Are you going to say something poetic now?” she asked, eyes closed.

“Not unless you ask me to.” His voice was steady, but a tremor hovered beneath it.

She tilted her head up to him, heart stuttering. His eyes held on hers, unreadable yet open.

“You should go,” she whispered.

He nodded. Just once. “Goodnight, Nell.”

He stepped back, pulling away from her with agonizing care. She watched him go, heart pounding like it was trying to bruise her ribs from the inside.

Unlocked her door. Stepped inside. Turned. Shut it. Immediately slid down the back of it in a slow, full-body collapse, her palms dragging down her face.

“Oh my gods,” she whispered into the dark. “I said I wanted to climb him like a tree. ”

She dropped her hands and stared up at the ceiling like it might grant her mercy or smite her outright. “And I kissed my hand and slapped his face with it. ”

A groan tore from her throat and she rolled onto her back, sprawling across the entryway floor like the crime scene outline of a woman who had perished of lust and poor judgment. The scarf bunched under one shoulder blade. Her dress was halfway up her thigh.

“I need to move,” she muttered.

She did not move.

Her face was on fire. Her stomach was butterflies. Her heart was jazz percussion—improvised, relentless, a little unhinged.

But her chest… Her chest felt warm with something akin to joy.

“I am never drinking again,” she told the ceiling.

The ceiling said nothing.

But somehow, it felt like it was smiling.