Page 43 of Moth to Her Flame

His eyes flutter open, citrine dulled to muddy amber. “Sorry… should’ve told you… getting worse…”

“Shut up.” Pressing my forehead to his, willing whatever energy he needs to flow between us. “You don’t get to apologize. You don’t get to fade out. Not now.”

A weak smile tugs at his lips. “So bossy…”

“Damn right.” My fingers thread through his hair, brushing his antennae. The smallest spark of gold ripples through his wings. “Keep talking.”

“Rather kiss you…”

“How can I say no to that?”

I press my lips to his, but there’s no arousal in the gesture. It’s as sexy as giving mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. I just want to fill him with my touch and affection in whatever way I can.

He slides his fingers through my hair and hums as though this is the sexiest moment of his life. I’m praying he stays conscious and alive until we’re home.

The drive back passes in a blur of worry and whispered encouragement. Every time his eyes drift closed, my fingers find his antennae, his neck, any point of contact that might help.

“Almost there,” I keep telling him. “Stay with me. Please.”

By the time we reach the mountain sanctuary, I’ve made my decision. No more waiting. No more careful distance.

Whatever he needs, whatever completing the bond requires—it’s time.

Because watching him fade feels like I’m dying.

And some prices are too high to pay for caution.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chelsea

He’s slumped against me, leaning almost all of his weight against me, as we walk to his room. All the guys offered to help, but I’m managing. I feel as though this is my fault and it’s my responsibility to make it better.

“Let me get you to bed, Riven. Let me fix this.”

“Yes, Chelsea, more kisses, more hugs.” He’s so tired he has to take a deep breath before he can add, “I’ll be good as new in no time.”

There are so many things I like and admire about this male, but this rigid nobility that puts his health at risk is not one of them.

“You need more than kisses and hugs, Riven. That’s obvious.”

He doesn’t complain when I pull off his soft leather boots. He’s so compliant, that I wonder if he’s lost consciousness. It’s only when I move to release the button on his jeans that he grips my wrist and murmurs, “No.”

I should be subtle, should convince him, perhaps use my wily womanly ways. Instead, I can’t control my urge to blurt, “You’re pissing me off, Mothman. Admit it. Things can’t go on like this.”

Somehow, he digs deep enough to find the strength to pull me into his arms as I tumble onto the bed beside him.

“I’m not noble, Chelsea. I’m selfish. It would kill me to wake up a day or week or month from now and catch you looking at me with hatred because I roped you into something you weren’t ready for, something you didn’t fully want—forever.”

As I consider my response, he adds, “I’m just protecting myself from heartache. See? Selfish as hell.”

Then it hits me like a thunderbolt that I love this man. I’ve known him for such a short time, but damn, I love him. He’s kind, and smart, and brave as hell. He slept in that damn car in the cold mountain air because I didn’t like his face, yet he never complained, never said a word. Just kept fixing things around my cabin, offering his support, braiding my hair, and cooking me pancakes.

He’s brought me to safety, offered me shelter, handed me this new family of cryptids who have all accepted me like a sister because he wanted me here. And now he’s willing to die because he wants something so simple. He just wants me to love him back. Because there’s no doubt this male loves me.

“I love you, Riven. I want to do this.”

His eyes darken to molten gold, but he catches my hands gently. “You’re choosing this because I’m dying.”

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