Page 68 of Claimed By the Mothman

Nell retreated to a corner near the balcony, clutching her cup of suspicious punch and watching the room.

Goldie was charming Ezra out of his metaphorical pants near the baked goods. Mr. Caracas was batting away a trio of pixies with a grumble so theatrical she almost applauded. One of the dimensional pockets in the northeast corner was burping gently, having swallowed a folding chair.

She took a sip. The punch bit back. The cassette tape stuttered suddenly, and she turned, feeling the flicker of air shift subtly on her skin.

Sig stood framed in the community room doorway. No suit today. Just a dark shirt, open at the collar, sleeves rolled, and slacks that somehow made his legs look longer.

Her pulse stuttered.

He walked in slowly, deliberately, like he wasn’t sure if he was welcome but had decided to come anyway.

She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until he reached her.

“Hello,” he said simply.

“Hi,” she replied, cheeks warming. “You came.”

“I was invited,” he said. Then, after a pause, “You look breezy.”

She flushed. “Is that a compliment?”

“I believe so.”

She laughed. The small bubble of sound surprised her.

He smiled. Faintly, but real.

“I love the comb,” she said, and meant it.

His ruby-red eyes softened, and Nell buried her face in her cup, taking a too-big swig of the spiked punch.

Slow down, girl. Don’t get drunk again. If you do, you’re going to actually climb him like a tree this time, and gods help you if he offers—

“Would you,” Sig asked, offering his hand with deliberate grace, interrupting her spiraling thoughts. “like to dance?”

She stared at him. “Here?”

“There is music.”

“I mean… yeah, but it’s not exactly adance floor,” she said, glancing at the buffet table, the jello molds, the gaggle of goblins masticating paper cups and growling at each other. “It’s more like a swaying space.”

He clicked. “You do not wish to?”

“No, I just—” She cut herself off before she could say something she would regret later. “Yes. Yes, I’d like to.”

With a confidence she didn’t feel, she set her cup down and slid her hand into his.

His claws curled carefully around her fingers. With a graceful movement, he guided her toward the open space near the buffet where a few others were already swaying in time to “Desperado.”

They began to move.

Her palm found his chest and his heartbeat thrummed beneath her touch in three-quarter time. The music curled around them in lazy loops, and they swayed in time, the world narrowing to the circle of warmth between them. She swore she could feel the bond stretching hesitantly between them, like a peace offering. The moment hung there, soft and golden—

“If you two are going to breed, do it off the godsdamned dance floor,” snorted Mr. Caracas.

Nell flushed crimson so fast she nearly combusted.

Sig turned his head to the grumpy old cryptid, who had turned on the TV and was watchingJeopardy!with subtitles. “We are not breeding,” he said calmly.