Page 96 of Claimed By the Mothman

And Edward—smug, oblivious, all diamond-sharp smiles and polished cruelty—took half a step closer.

—

Everything had been going so well.

They’d laughed. Eaten. Kissed. He had touched her constantly, because to not touch her felt wrong, and joy exploded in his heart whenever she leaned in to him. She had glowed under the weight of happiness and powdered sugar.

The moment her breath hitched, he felt it. A single sour note rippling outward, collapsing through his nerves.

In front of her—standing in sunlight he did not deserve—was the source of it. The origin. The wound. The ex. And he was smiling in a predatory way that made Nell shrink like a mouse before a hawk.

Sig rose. Around him, the breeze halted. A pigeon folded its wings mid-flutter and settled to the earth, trembling.

You will feel the pull, Harbinger,he heard, the memory of the Broodhome resonating in his ears. Layered wings whispering, overlapping like a chorus, pulsing in solemn cadence.The threads of fate are not yours to twist. Resist the urge to race down them.

But Sig did not care. Because his beloved was hurting. And the two before her, shining like fool’s good, brittle with ego and arrogance, were standing too close. Theydaredto make her shrink. To make her fold herself smaller so they could shine brighter.

He wasn’t supposed to interfere with mortal fate. But Sig had already broken one vow to save her, and now, without remorse, henudged.

“I’m Edward McMillan,” the man said, extending a hand with a politician’s grin. “I don’t believe we’ve—”

“You are the Edward.”

The words did not rise, but settled like a dirge.

Edward froze, caught mid-handshake. “Uh… I mean, yes?”

Around them, Bellwether shuddered. A barista spilled milk and stepped back cautiously. A rack of handmade jam jars trembled like glass chimes. A dog three tables away gave a strangled whimper and slunk behind its owner’s legs. The owner looked down, sighed, and turned his attention back to the crossword puzzle on his table.

Edward just laughed awkwardly and tried again. “So, are you a friend of Nell’s, or…?”

The question dangled smugly. Like this washistown. Like Nell washisto define.

Sig didn’t answer right away. Instead, he turned his gaze inward. Paths opened before him. Thousands. Tens of thousands. He chased down the timelines like prey.

Saw the ones where Edward grew old and fat and content.Too kind.

Saw the ones where Edward floundered, failed, and stumbled into quiet obscurity.Too easy.

Saw the ones where Edward tried to make amends, where he wrote long, sincere letters to Nell in his dotage.Too pathetic.

He dove deeper into the winding helix of might-be until he found the ones thatbit.

—Edward at fifty-three,in a kitchen that smells of bleach and regret. A child at the table scrolling on a tablet. He offers a story about the past, about the first woman he married. The child shrugs and says, “Mom said not to listen to you.”

—Edward at sixty-one,standing at a sun-bleached yard at a graduation party, alone. The child—sharp-jawed, beautiful, distant—introducing her partner. Edward offers his hand. The partner nods. The handshake doesn’t come.

—Edward at seventy,staring at an empty inbox. His name not on the wedding invitation.

The letter says “due to space limitations.” He knows that’s a lie.

With all the quiet gravity of a falling guillotine, Sig returned to the present, lifted his gaze, and spoke.

“You.”His voice slid prophecy into syllables.“You, who mistook comfort for love. Who measured devotion by silence and called it peace.”

Edward stiffened. The smile congealed on his face. Elinore shifted beside him, uncertainty creeping into her features. Sig reached down, settling his hand on Nell’s shoulder.

“You, who saw softness and thought it smallness. Who plucked your own future from another’s skin and called it destiny.”