Page 36 of Claimed By the Mothman (Greymarket Towers #1)

N ell awoke to the soft ping of a text message.

The light in the room was gold and low, just past dawn. She lay still, letting herself breathe in the newness. Sheets tangled loosely around her bare legs. The air was thick with the scent of sleep, sex, and something older.

She reached out instinctively, only to find the space beside her empty. Her breath caught.

She remembered waking in the dark as his claspers released from around her waist. Steady and carefully, he’d risen and carried her to her bed with a gentleness that made her want to cry.

She’d curled into his chest, fingers fisting gently in the fuzz along his sternum.

He had whispered something soft and pulsing, in a language she didn’t understand but her body did.

She had kissed the curve of his jaw in answer, and he had laid down beside her, one wing folding over their entwined bodies.

They had slept like that, cocooned in pulse and promise.

Now, she reached for her phone with one hand and swiped it on.

A single message from Mrs. Kephra:

Last night I dreamed of wings and two heartbeats pulsing as one.

Take the rest of the week.

Return to us when your ring aligns.

Be cautious.

I am happy for you.

Nell read it twice and smiled faintly. Her thumb overed over the keyboard and she almost sent a text to Goldie—but what would she say?

Hi. It’s official—I claimed the Harbinger. The sex was wild. I think I glowed when I came the first four times?

She tossed the sheets back and sat up, her body warm and loose and sore in the best possible way. She grabbed her robe from the floor, shrugged it on, and then made her way into the kitchen, yawning and rubbing one eye.

There at the counter was Sig, bare-chested with loose, flowing pants slung low on his hips.

The morning light slanted across his body in golden strips, catching at the seam where velvet-fuzz met chitin.

His wings were folded neatly behind him, the faintest ripple of iridescence pulsing where they tucked close to his spine.

He poured hot water into two ceramic mugs. Beside him on the counter was a plate of pastries. Beautiful ones, laminated and flaky and golden and the kind of thing she never would splurge on for herself.He must’ve gone back to his apartment, gotten dressed, and collected these.

Nell stood there, caught in the moment, a breath between wonder and disbelief. He looked up, and their eyes met across the quiet space of her kitchen.

The opal on her finger gave a gentle squeeze.

She glanced at the plate. “Did you make those?” The words came out awkward—too loud, too human.

“No,” he said simply. “I did not make them. I purchased them. From a human bakery. I thought you would appreciate that more.”

He made a soft click-click-huff, almost like…a laugh?

“Wait—did you just try to be funny?”

“I…tried to be,” he said, utterly deadpan.

Nell stared at him and then let loose a peal of laughter “Oh gods! You do have a sense of humor.”

“I do,” he said gravely. “It is apparently calibrated to pastries.”

She shook her head and stepped forward. Hesitantly, she reached up and wrapped her arms around his bare torso. The heat of his skin radiated through her robe, and the hum of the bond brushed against her nerves like a song.

Sig folded his arms around her in return, and one wing lifted, wrapping around her back. He leaned down slightly, murmuring something close to her ear. A wash of sound—rumbles and gentle clicks, thrums woven into a cadence that made her shiver.

“What does that mean?” she asked softly, lifting her face.

He considered for a moment. “It is a morning-time song from beloved to beloved. There is no direct translation. But it means: I have risen, and you are the first thing the light touches in me. ”

Her breath hitched.

“Does your kind not have those?” he asked, gently curious.

She flushed, pulling away just slightly. “Not really,” she admitted. “It’s more like, good morning, sexy , or, hope you slept well, or something vague and nonsensical like that.”

She shrugged, the motion a little self-deprecating, a little wistful. “Although Edward never said anything like that. Not after the first few years. It was more like, aren’t you dressed yet? or, looking a little rough there, honey.”

Another laugh. Forced at first, then real. Damn, this felt good. Awkward, but good.

Sig clicked thoughtfully. “ Good morning… sexy? ” he echoed. It sounded strange coming from him—flat and unsure, like he was testing the weight of the words.

“I like your clicks better.” Nell hugged him tightly again. “Much, much better.”

He churred, pleased.

She pulled away and picked up one of the mugs he’d prepared. It was hot, steamy, and perfect. Then her gaze went to the pastries. He’d purchased them, thinking of her. That alone made her stomach rumble. She picked one up and took a bite. It was divine.

“This Edward,” Sig said quietly. “Your ex-husband. You mentioned him before.”

Nell paused. Lowered the pastry slowly to the plate and looked at the mothman. He was leaning against the counter. The light caught in the delicate lines of his antennae. He looked like someone who wanted to know the shape of every shadow that had ever passed over her.

“We don’t know very much about each other, do we?” she said softly.

He moved to take the second mug. “No,” he agreed. “We do not.” He lifted it with both hands, delicately, as if unsure how much pressure it could take. “But that is unimportant. We shall learn.”

With practiced grace, he brought the cup to his mouth, and his proboscis slid out and dipped into the tea.

Nell flushed, hard. Her thighs clenched beneath the robe as she remembered what that appendage had done last night.

Sig winced slightly and set the cup down. “I have a confession, Nell,” he said, with the solemnity of someone preparing to let loose a ruinous secret. His ruby eyes locked on hers, and his expression was earnest. “I do not enjoy this type of beverage. It tastes of dirt.”

She stared at him.

He misread the expression instantly, his tone hitching in concern. “I do not wish to offend you. But as we are now bonded, I must be honest with you. I—are you laughing?”

She was absolutely laughing.

Nell covered her face as her shoulders shook. “It tastes like dirt, says the cryptid who brought a literal living salad bowl to dinner!”

“That was a delicacy,” he said, affronted.

She was laughing so hard her sides hurt. And she already hurt, because the sex last night had been very, very good, and she was still deliciously sore, and now this? Tea tastes like dirt?

“It sighed at me, Sig!” she howled. “One of the leaves sighed! ”

“It was nervous,” he said, utterly serious. “You are quite intimidating.”

She wheezed. And then, blessedly, she heard his version of laughter, all soft clicks and chuffs fluttering in his chest.

“Oh, gods, I’m sorry,” she finally managed, wiping her eyes and catching her breath. “But you’re absolutely adorable. It’s okay, Sig. You don’t have to like tea. Really.”

“Truly?” he asked, concerned but visibly relieved.

“Truly.” She coughed, and then took a small sip from her cup. She met his eyes and winked. “More for me.”

The laughter lingered between them, still fizzing at the edges, but something quieter slipped in beneath it. A hush. A warmth.

Nell looked down at the tea, exhaled slowly, and moved to the table.

“Yes. Edward,” she said at last as she sat, finally answering Sig’s question. “We got divorced earlier this year. But honestly, the marriage was over long before that. Probably before it even began.”

She took a slow sip of her tea. “I think he married me because I made him feel good about himself. I was shiny. Bright. Polished enough to stand next to him without embarrassing him.”

Another sip. Her eyes strayed to the window.

“And then I stopped doing that. Or he stopped seeing it. What made him feel good turned into something like… contempt. I became… I don’t know, not sparkly enough to help him climb the ladder.”

She shrugged. “He wanted a show wife. Someone who was always on. Always the right kind of clever, the right kind of pretty, even when she woke up in the morning.”

Another sip. Cooler now. Easier to swallow. She gave a dry smile.

“And then one day I came home early and found him in bed with the sexy young intern. And, well. That was that.”

She let the words settle in the air, and for the first time, they didn’t sting.

Sig moved to her side and knelt. He placed a hand on her cheek and then brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. His eyes, glowing faintly with emotion, met hers.

“I shall find this Edward and throw him from this ladder,” he said solemnly “And then I will remove his limbs, one by one. Slowly. And then,” he added, almost thoughtfully, “I shall begin on this intern.”

Nell barked a laugh—startled, bright, and just a little horrified. “Sig, no. That’s really not necessary.”

“One limb, then,” he offered. “Just enough to make him bleed.”

“Still no.”

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a husky murmur. “A single digit. For disrespecting you.”

“Sig.” She reached up and covered the hand on her cheek with hers. “Please don’t kill my ex-husband. Really.”

He tilted his head, reluctantly mollified.

Nell brought his hand to her lips and pressed a soft kiss against the center of his palm. “You do realize,” she said gently, “that if he hadn’t done that—if he hadn’t cheated—I wouldn’t be here. Not at Greymarket. Not with you.”

For the first time since the divorce, that old platitude— everything happens for a reason —didn’t feel like sandpaper across a bruise.

Because if she hadn’t come home early that day, she would still be there in that beige purgatory, disappearing by inches.

Instead, she was here, with a winged cryptid who had worshipped at her body like it was a cathedral and looked at her like she was a miracle.