Page 14 of Moth to Her Flame

That gets a real smile, transforming his features. “I never back down from a challenge.” His voice drops lower, almost playful. “Especially not from you.”

Something warm clenches in my chest at his tone. Over pasta that’s actually delicious (apparently mothmen can cook), conversation flows more easily than it should. He’s well-read, witty, and surprisingly knowledgeable about broadcast equipment. Who knew?

When he bends over the chessboard, carefully setting up pieces, his wild amber hair falls forward in layers that remind me of those 80s rock bands I used to love. It’s… not unattractive. Actually, focusing on his hair makes it easier to look at him directly. The way it frames his face, catches the light…

His hand trembles placing the final pawn, breaking my reverie.

“You’re in pain.” Not a question.

“It’s manageable.”

“Liar.” The word comes out firmer than intended. Our fingers almost brush as we both reach for a fallen knight, and his sharp intake of breath makes something flutter in my stomach. “What helps? Besides… proximity?”

His antennae flatten in embarrassment, but I find myself fascinated by the way they move, how expressive they are. “Any touch, really. Even slight. It’s not… it doesn’t have to be…”

“Take off your shoes.”

He blinks. “What?”

“And socks. Call it a science experiment.” My own shoes and socks join the pile. “Physical contact hypothesis testing, phase one.”

Understanding dawns. His feet emerge—surprisingly normal-looking compared to the rest of him.

Under the table, I stretch out my leg until my toes brush his foot.

The reaction steals my breath. The simple touch ignites like a match to gasoline. His wings flare with brilliant golden light, his entire body arching like a bowstring pulled taut. A sound escapes him—low and rough and startlingly masculine—thatsends heat rushing to my face. The primal noise vibrates through the air between us, settling low in my belly and making my toes curl against his skin.

His head falls back, exposing the strong line of his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. Every muscle in his body seems to tremble, caught in the grip of something far more intense than just relief. His antennae unfurl like ferns in spring, quivering with each shallow breath he takes.

My breath catches as waves of secondhand pleasure wash over me. Such a simple point of contact—my bare foot against his—yet his response is devastating in its intensity. Heat pools between my thighs as I watch him struggle to maintain composure, his fingers gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles whiten.

When his eyes finally open, they’re molten gold, dark with a hunger that makes my stomach flip. The raw need in his gaze pins me in place as surely as any physical touch. Every line of tension in his body releases in a wave that’s almost… sensual.

My toes flex unconsciously against his foot, drawing another shuddering gasp from him. The sound shoots straight to my core, making me shift restlessly in my chair. How can such innocent contact feel so intimate? So charged?

The transformation is mesmerizing. And far more intimate than I was prepared for.

His eyes fly open, mortification replacing bliss. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t apologize.” My foot stays pressed against his, even as I try to ignore how affected I am by his response. “It helped, right?”

“Yes.” The word emerges as more growl than speech, rough and primal in a way that makes my thighs clench. “More than I can… thank you.”

After a pause as he visibly pulls himself together, he leans forward to make his first move, hair falling across his face again, and I find myself watching the way it shifts, gleaming almost bronze in the lamplight. When did I start finding things about him beautiful?

“Your move,” he murmurs, eyes bright with challenge and something deeper that makes my mouth go dry.

My answering smile feels natural, even as confusion wars with growing attraction. “Game on.”

Outside, crickets chirp. My recorded voice spins tales of mystery into the night. And under the table, two pairs of feet maintain contact that feels increasingly less casual with every shared glance and careful touch.

Some victories, it turns out, come in very small moves. Some revelations appear in the way lamplight catches amber hair, in the sound of caught breath, in the growing realization that perhaps not everything about him is difficult to look at after all.

Chapter Thirteen

Riven

The tail end of Chelsea’s show drifts through my earbuds as I patrol the perimeter of her property. “Let’s dig a little deeper into the Demon Truck of Seven Hills Road. Any callers out there who’ve seen this phenomenon? Remember, the strangest mysteries are often hiding in plain sight…”

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