Page 20 of Moth to Her Flame

Starting the braid requires touching her scalp, and my hands tremble slightly. “Is this okay?”

Her soft “mm-hmm” sparks excitement through my limbs. Gathering sections of hair, I weave them together, fingertips brushing her neck occasionally. Each accidental contact makes my energy surge.

The intimate act of braiding someone’s hair is ancient, primal. My fingers work steadily, creating patterns that feel like poetry. She’s letting me touch her, care for her, even if it’s just because last night’s revelations left her craving comfort. Even if she still can’t quite look at me without that flicker of revulsion.

“Where did you learn to braid?” Her voice comes out dreamy, relaxed.

“Practice. Leather work mostly. It’s soothing.” Working with rope and leather? Not so soothing. Touching my bondmate’s hair this way, comforting her, calming her? Yes. It’s more than soothing. Although my heart is calmer than it’s been in years, what’s going on below my waist isn’t calm at all.

My cock is pulsing insistently—another reason I’m glad I’m standing behind her. Sexual pictures, along with matching urges, fly through my mind, then circle insistently. I push them away and try to focus my attention on giving innocent pleasure to my mate.

A comfortable silence falls as I work, broken only by her occasional happy sighs. My wings cast golden light across her hair, making it shimmer like living flame. The urge to bury my face in it, to breathe in her scent, to press my lips to her nape is almost overwhelming.

Instead, I focus on the braid, on making each section perfect. She deserves that much. Deserves beauty and care and gentleness, even from hands she once flinched from.

“Done.” The word comes out husky. Securing the end with an elastic, I resist the urge to let my fingers linger.

She reaches back to feel my work, and her fingers brush mine. The contact sends sparks through my wings, making them flare brilliant gold. A small gasp escapes her.

“Thank you.” She turns, and for once doesn’t look away from my alien features. “It feels amazing.”

“Any time.” The words carry more weight than intended. Any time you’ll let me touch you. Any time you can bear my presence. Any time you need me.

She touches the braid again. “I gotta say, you really are good with your hands.”

Heat floods my face at her words, at the innocently sensual way she strokes the plait. My chest fills with answering warmth, betraying how affected I am by her touch, her trust, her momentary acceptance.

Rising quickly, I gather the breakfast dishes, needing distance before I do something foolish like try to kiss her. Like believe this moment means more than a simple act of kindness on her part.

“I should clean up.”

“Let me help.”

“No, please.” My voice softens at her startled look. “Let me do this for you.” I leave unspoken: it’s what bondmates do.

She nods, fingers still playing with the braid. The sight makes my heart ache with tenderness, with wanting, with the knowledge that this closeness is temporary. Born of fear and necessity rather than genuine desire.

But for now, my wings still glow with the memory of her hair sliding through my fingers. For now, she’s letting me care for her in small ways. For now, that has to be enough.

Even if it never will be.

Chapter Seventeen

Chelsea

The maze symbol has been nagging at my brain like an itch I can’t scratch. Standing before the wall of file cabinets at one end of my broadcast room, hands on hips, I mutter, “It’s here somewhere.”

“You could just digitize everything.” Riven leans against the doorframe, wings catching morning light in a way that’s becoming distractingly beautiful. “Join the twenty-first century. Just a thought.” He gives a jaunty shrug.

“Says the cryptid using a smartphone.” The tease comes naturally now, especially when his antennae twitch with amusement. “It may not look it, but there’s method to my madness.”

“Enlighten me.” He moves closer, and the air seems to thicken between us.

“Remember how I lost everything over the Sasquatch story?” The drawer labeled “Kitchen Recipes” slides open with a familiar screech. “Wasn’t just bad luck. Someone hacked my cloud storage and found my research.”

His wings pull tight against his back—a gesture I’m learning means distress. “What happened?”

“Former colleague. She leaked everything online after twisting it to make me sound crazy.” The memory still stings. “Posted about my ‘descent into paranoid conspiracy theories.’ After that, the Sasquatch article was just the final nail in my career’s coffin.”

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