Page 41 of Claimed By the Mothman (Greymarket Towers #1)
A Sasquatch child on the curb whispered, “That was so cool,” before her pixie nanny covered her mouth and briskly ushered her away with wings flared in quiet alarm.
One of the fruit vendors nearby nodded solemnly before turning back to rearrange his peaches.
Sig straightened and reached silently into the lattice of threads that curled and twisted from the space Edward and Elinore occupied. Watched it writhe, jitter, react like a creature disturbed. Future upon future blooming from the echo of his words.
One path showed a sleepless night: Edward staring at the ceiling, a phantom ache in his chest he would never be able to name. Another spun out years— decades —until his child asked a question he couldn’t answer, and the silence that followed became a chasm he could never bridge.
Elinore’s threads were softer, more fragile, less formed.
He saw a mirror kissed nightly, a makeup brush stilled mid-motion.
He saw her laugh too brightly at a dinner party, then excuse herself to cry where no one noticed her absence.
He saw the moment, years from now, when someone whispered a cruel truth behind her back and she felt it settle into her like lead.
None of it was certain, but it could be. And that was enough.
Nell stirred beneath Sig’s hands, and he touched a claw gently to the crown of her head. With a click, he bent—his eyes never leaving the two traitorous figures before him—and pressed a kiss to her sparrow-brown hair. Love burned in his chest.
“Leave.” The Harbinger’s voice cut clean through the silence.
Edward turned without a word, jaw slack, eyes too wide.
He stumbled on a crate of apricots and did not pause to apologize.
Elinore muttered something sharp under her breath, her words angry and laced with confusion, like someone whose reflection had just cracked and shown them something they couldn’t unsee.
The two vanished into the crowd like a bad smell on the wind.
A smack echoed through the air as a woman at the adjacent table slapped her husband on the arm.“Why can’t you ever stand up for me like that?” she hissed.
Her husband opened his mouth, closed it, and took a long, contemplative bite of his pain au chocolat.
Sig looked down. Nell hadn’t moved, but she glanced up at him with eyes that were wet with unshed tears. He crouched beside her, silent and massive, and lifted a claw to brush a lock of hair behind her ear,
“I apologize,” he said softly, his voice no longer resonating with the weight of ages. “But I could not allow them to continue to speak to you as if they mattered.”
Nell Townsend smiled and reached a hand to the Harbinger’s cheek, brushing her fingers along the smear of powdered sugar still clinging to his jaw.
She leaned in and softly kissed the corner of his mouth. “You’re mine,” she whispered. “And I’m so, so glad.”
Somewhere behind them, a voice murmured: “I don’t know what they have, but I want ten of it.”
—
They took the long way home.
Down the side street where the vines whispered secrets. Past the bakery where the loaves rose with suspicious intelligence. Through the square where the cobblestones changed pattern when no one was looking.
As they approached Greymarket Towers, the city shifted. Leaves shivered on trees with no breeze. Somewhere behind them, a lamp flickered in approval. A street vendor bowed without realizing it. The air thickened with familiarity and acceptance.
The front doors of the apartment building opened before them with a whisper. The lobby was unusually quiet. A sconce blinked twice, and the floor glimmered faintly with welcome. One of the elevators gave a low rumble of recognition but wisely did not ding.
They took the stairs, walked down the hallway and entered her apartment without a word.
Nell set her bag down. Kicked off her shoes. Exhaled like she hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath since the cafe.
Sig stood in the frame of the living room, watching her with a reverent stillness. His wings had relaxed. His hands were loose at his sides. But his eyes still glowed faintly.
She turned. “You know,” she said, her voice soft, "I don’t need you to fight my battles for me."
He dipped his head.
A slow smile spread across her face. “But, gods, that was so hot.”
A low chuff escaped Sig’s chest. His wings fluttered, pleased and bashful all at once.
Nell stepped toward him and pressed a hand gently to his chest. The other slid down, her fingers curling around the curve of his hip. With a gentle nudge, she pulled. He yielded, following her lead, until she backed him up against the couch and he folded down in fluid grace.
Nell dropped to her knees before him. The carpet was rough. Her dress bunched awkwardly. She didn’t care. His breath caught as she looked up.
“Let me thank you properly,” she murmured, her eyes flashing with promise and her mouth curling into something wicked.
His claws gripped the cushions on either side of him, tension humming through his arms. “Nell,” he whispered. “You do not have to—”
“I know.” Her fingers found the fastenings of his trousers. “But I want to.”
She slowly undid the strange, intricate closures.
His breath hitched as she worked. He lifted his hips in silent offering, obedience cloaked in devotion, and she peeled the fabric down to his knees, exposing him to the air and the heat of her intent.
She kissed his stomach delicately. Then lower. Then lower still.
Her mouth met the seam of his slit. Her tongue teased, coaxing along the trembling edges.
A groan rose in Sig’s throat and he emerged slowly, thick and flushed, heavy with need. Not remotely human. Perfectly monstrous and hers.
She licked the underside of his cock with slow deliberation. Her lips followed, mouthing the head, savoring the taste, the texture, the sheer impossibility of him.
Sig’s head dropped back. His breath caught on a ragged exhale, and one clawed hand lifted to hover over her head and then pulled back, as if aching to touch but seemingly not trusting his control.
Nell opened her mouth wider and sank down, inch by inch, until the whole of him filled her mouth, her throat, her breath. She moaned around him and his hips bucked against the vibration.
She pulled back. Sucked harder. His knees spasmed, wings twitching against the couch like they were straining to take to the air. He made a raw, unearthly nose filled with chitters and clicks.
“Beloved,” he rasped, voice breaking, “please—please—do not stop—”
She looked up, met his eyes, and winked. Her tongue flicked as she moved forward and swallowed him even deeper, throat open, lips sealed tightly around his length. Her hands gripped his thighs with iron devotion, anchoring him while her mouth destroyed him.
“You undo me,” he gasped, the words barely a whisper, torn from some ancient place inside him.
She hummed around him in answer.
He came with a snarl that was more cry than breath, a seismic sound that pulsed through every limb.
He keened, mouth parting in awe as climax overtook him.
His seed flooded into her mouth, hot and sharp and spurting.
She swallowed each pulse greedily, tongue flicking against him in slow movements until the final tremor faded from his core.
Nell pulled back, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and rested her cheek against his thigh with a self-satisfied sigh. Her eyes fluttered shut, lips swollen, breath slow and triumphant.
Sig looked down at her, chest heaving. His voice barely held shape. “You have undone me.”
She grinned, slow and smug. “You started it.”
A chitter of laughter escaped him. He reached down, curled a single claw beneath her chin, and guided her upward. Slowly. Carefully.
Their mouths met in a slow, deep kiss. There was no shame in the taste of himself on her lips—only gratitude and hunger for more.
“I have never,” he murmured, voice trembling with awe, “been worshipped like that.”
Nell pulled back infinitesimally with a feline, lethal smile. “Well,” she whispered, brushing her nose against his, “we’ll make sure this isn’t the last time.”
A low click rumbled from his chest as his eyes flashed. With a smooth motion, Sig swept her into his lap and folded his arms around her, bowing his head to her shoulder.
She gasped—half-laugh, half-moan—as her thighs slid around him, the press of her body melting into his. Skin to skin. Heat to heat.
His mouth found the curve of her ear. “I will never stop craving your worship,” he whispered, each word a solemn vow.
“That better be a promise,” Nell murmured, kissing his temple.
His answer was a thrum that vibrated straight through her spine.
And beneath the floors, inside the walls, braided into the breath of Greymarket Towers themselves, a soft rumble rose in agreement as if the building, too, had borne witness and approved, fully.