Page 70 of Claimed By the Mothman

“Why is that?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t know. Guess I always felt on display, especially when I was married.”

Sig’s eyes flicked to her hands, her face, her throat, like he was searching for something. “Married?” he asked in an incredibly careful tone.

“Was.”She emphasized it, quiet but firm. “Past tense.”

He relaxed visibly.

Nell shuffled the food around on her plate. “Edward—my ex—liked appearances. Big work things and fancy events where you smiled and drank too much and made small talk with people you’d never see again. I went because I thought that’s what you did when you loved someone.”

Sig didn’t speak.

“I don’t think he ever really saw me,” she murmured, stabbing a grape tomato and watching its juice pool across her plate. “I mean—notmeme. Just the version that looked good on his arm.”

She felt a flush crawl up her cheeks again—gods, I must look like an overheated tomato by now—and shook her head. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

“Because I am listening,” Sig said simply.

She glanced up at him and found him looking at her like she was made of something sacred. Her heart flipped in her throat.

“I hated every party,” she whispered.

“I am sorry,” he said softly.

She shrugged again, trying to throw off the growing warmth in her chest. “At least the food’s better here.”

Deliberately, Sig reached out and plucked a berry from her plate. With a graceful movement, he brought it to his mouth and bit down without flinching.

“The lemonade here has teeth, however,” he said, solemn as poetry.

Her breath caught in her chest as he swallowed. “I like toothy beverages,” she whispered nonsensically, watching as his tongue flicked briefly over his lipless mouth to catch a stray drop of juice.

—

Someone had replaced the cassette in the player and the music spilled out again, something older with a softened crackle and horns that swayed like breath through tall grass.

Sig didn’t move. He was exactly where he desired to be.

Chaos was gently unfolding before them. The Jell-o molds were muttering. Benji had clearly had one too many ladles of spiked punch and was regaling Linda with wild hand gestures, while she nodded dreamily like he was unveiling the secrets of the cosmos. Thess was on the dance floor, shimmying to a rhythm only they could hear.

Theo was deep in conversation with Mr. Caracas, bouncing on his heels and waving a crayon drawing while the old cryptid scowled like it was an affront to decency. But he didn’t move away. In fact, there was something suspiciously close to pride in the way he patted Theo’s shoulder with a gruff harrumph.

Nell was smiling. Her eyes flicked over to him.

“You’re staring again,” she said, amused.

“Yes,” he murmured.

She looked away, but he kept watching. Not because he meant to make her uncomfortable, but because he wanted to memorize every tilt of her mouth, every movement she made.

Catalina passed by, bearing a bowl of chips in one hand and guacamole in the other. “Ten more minutes and the punch is going to eat someone,” she announced. The punch trembled, perhaps with anticipation.

Nell looked up at him and cleared her throat. “Would you like to stay longer?” she asked. “Or… can I walk you home this time?”

His throat worked around something too large and too soft. The words took shape only because they were the simplest, barest truth.

“I would be honored,” he said.