Page 39 of Claimed By the Mothman (Greymarket Towers #1)

Nell pulled on a simple sundress and slipped her feet into a pair of comfortable sandals.

She was finishing drying her hair when Sig emerged from the other room, dressed in a black button-up shirt and slacks.

The shirt gleamed faintly like polished obsidian and was sinfully tailored.

It should have looked absurd over the monstrous architecture of his wings, but instead, it looked regal.

Like it had been designed by a cult of high-fashion Harbinger worshipers.

“Wait,” she said, eyes narrowing as she quickly finger-combed her hair and twisted it back with a clip. “How does that even work? With the wings?”

He turned obligingly, presenting his back, The shirt was bisected cleanly down the spine and secured at the shoulders and lower back with neat, nearly invisible hooks. Between them, his wings flared outward like draped fabric.

Intrigued, Nell stepped forward and raised her fingers to brush the lower clasp, where fabric met skin. She lightly traced the base of his wing, and Sig shivered.

She jerked her hand back. “Sorry—was that—?”

“It is very intimate,” he said, voice breathy. “But not unwelcome.”

Oh. Oh .

Sig turned and his eyes swept over Nell’s dress. He gave an appraising nod. “This garment is acceptable. It is soft and will allow continued access to your mark.”

Nell smiled and pulled a denim jacket from her closet. “You make it sound like you’re evaluating thigh accessibility.”

“I am.”

“Glad to know we’re aligned on priorities.”

Sig stood and stepped close to her. “Access,” he murmured, eyes dropping to her lips, “is sacred.” He lifted one hand and gently stroked the line of her throat.

Nell drew a deep breath and pointed to his shirt in an effort to clear her head. “You’ve gotta show me how you put this on at some point. Is there a wing-stretch? A special shimmy?”

He tilted his head. “I promise to show you how I put it on…if you agree to take it off.”

Her knees buckled. “Damn,” she whispered.

Sig smiled in a slow, ruinous way. “Later. After the date.”

—

Bellwether’s farmer’s market was alive with sound, scent, and the slightly chaotic energy of early summer.

Handwoven tents stretched in bright, mismatched rows. Produce gleamed like treasure: baskets of strawberries and nectarines, glossy tomatoes and cornucopias of sweet corn. A trio of stringed instruments played a winding tune that subtly harmonized with passing footsteps and vendor calls.

Nell and Sig walked side by side, constantly touching.

Sometimes it was the brush of his knuckles against hers, a casual drag that made her breath stutter in ways she refused to let herself think about in public.

Sometimes his hand rested lightly at the small of her back, like a promise or a shield.

Once, it was a clawed palm possessively cupping her hip before he withdrew with an apologetic click.

She didn’t call him out for it. She liked it. Every time he touched her, the mark between her thighs hummed like a second pulse.

“I enjoy this market,” Sig said as they passed a stall overflowing with braided herbs and something that might have been sentient mushrooms. His eyes gleamed, antennae twitching. “It smells of yeast and pollination.”

“That’s weirdly accurate, and also kinda gross.”

He turned his head towards her. “Would you prefer I say it smells like sweating stone fruit and overheated humans?”

“I mean. I guess it does.”

They passed a booth filled with handmade candles carved into protective runes. Another boasted vintage books and delicate paper charms that twitched faintly in the breeze, their corners curling as if whispering secrets.

A determined-looking woman hawked pickled everything—onions, cherries, garlic, whole peaches in neon brine—and Sig insisted on examining each jar with grave attention.

“You are not eating the radioactive peaches,” Nell said, steering him away by the elbow.

“They are not radioactive, beloved,” he said, sounding offended. “They are preserved with experimental technique.”

“That’s worse. You know that, right?”

He made a disappointed chuff but didn’t argue.

At another booth, Sig stopped to confer with a vendor who was either cryptid or very magically altered. Their face shimmered slightly, like something only half-anchored in the visible spectrum, and they spoke in low, melodic tones she couldn’t decipher.

When Sig returned to her side, he was beaming and holding something on a skewer that steamed ominously. It was brownish-green, glistening in a way that suggested it had once been part of something alive, but not recently.

“What is that?”

“A delicacy,” he exclaimed, delight ringing in his voice. “A treat among my people. Fermented root bark layered with moss paste and—”

“Stop. No more details.”

Sig tilted the skewer toward himself and took a bite. His eyes fluttered closed. His antennae lifted slightly and a pleased chirr of breath escaped him. “Oh. Yes. This batch is transcendent.”

He took another slow chew, then looked at her with such sincerity it made her chest tighten. “I wished to share it with you.”

Well. Damn it to all the hells.

Nell smiled, stepped forward, and opened her mouth slightly. Reverently, Sig lowered the skewer to her mouth, his eyes glowing. Slowly, Nell bent forward, took the tiniest possible bite, and regretted it immediately.

It tasted like licorice-flavored charcoal that had been smoked inside a damp crypt with dead leaves and disappointment. There were textures. Too many textures. One of them squeaked.

She swallowed with visible effort. Sig was watching her like her mouth had become a site of revelation.

“You did not like it,” he said, awestruck.

She coughed politely and resisted the urge to gag. “Nope.”

“But you tried it. For me.”

Nell nodded, eyes watering a little. “Yep”

Sig reached out and cupped the back of her head. “I love you,” he murmured.

Her brain blue-screened at the declaration.

“I love that you tried it,” he clarified, smiling with so much quiet joy it nearly knocked her off balance. “It is an expression of faith. I am deeply moved.”

“Oh,” she breathed. “Okay.”

With a chirr-chuckle, he leaned in and kissed her mouth softly. When he pulled back, his eyes glowed faintly. “And I love you as well, in truth. Not an expression.”

Her breath caught. Her pulse fluttered. “I…maybe…think I love you too?” The words came out tentative, startled, but no less real.

Sig’s hand grazed her cheek. “It is early for you,” he said. “I understand. But your maybe sings to me, and that is enough.”

—

They wandered until the early afternoon sun pushed them into the shade of a quiet café on the edge of the market.

A patio table. Mismatched chairs. A tea kettle and a carafe of too-sweet juice between them.

The table legs were uneven, and the sugar bowl looked like it had been crocheted instead of carved.

A perfect little pocket of Bellwether normal.

Behind them, a trio of sentient pigeons argued in fluent French.

A nearby vendor was selling psychically infused jam with a sign that read: Eat This and Remember Every Lover Who Wronged You .

Nell considered buying a jar, but decided against it.

Right now, she was basking in sunlight and watching a gentle mothman try to figure out how to politely eat a beignet.

Powdered sugar clung to the edge of Sig’s jaw. His wings were tucked behind him in neat, shimmering lines, and he’d managed to fold himself into the smallest shape possible for the café chair. People stared. Of course they did. But neither Nell nor Sig cared.

Sig reached across the table and brushed a crumb from her chin with one gentle claw. “I will never understand why human food must be both fried and dusted in snow.”

“You loved it,” she said, nudging the last third of the pastry toward him.

“I did not say I objected.” His eyes gleamed, antennae lifting in the dappled sun. Nell laughed, real and unguarded, and Sig’s pupils dilated slightly—

“Nell?”

Her name cracked through the air like a whip.

Everything inside Nell seized. She turned slowly. Mechanically. Like hearing a car crash—you already know what’s been destroyed, but you still have to look.

Edward stood just beyond the little patio gate, one arm draped with casual ownership around a woman who looked like she’d been photoshopped into existence.

Flawless linen dress. Honey-glazed hair.

A pearl clip that probably cost more than Nell’s monthly rent.

The kind of woman who didn’t sweat at farmers markets.

The kind of woman Nell used to worry Edward wanted because, apparently, he did.

“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 is such a 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.