Moth to Her Flame (Mated to the Monster: Season 3)

3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

R iven

Her cabin lights pierce the darkness like a beacon, drawing me closer with each wingbeat. The mountain air carries her voice—still broadcasting—straight to my sensitive antennae. Even from this distance, that husky tone pierces straight to the heart of me.

The cool air should clear my head. Instead, my thoughts spiral like autumn leaves caught in a whirlwind.

Just tell her the truth. Simple. Direct.

Right. Because “Hi, I’m a Mothman who listens to your show, and by the way, there’s an evil tech company hunting cryptids… and you,” is such a winning opener.

Banking left around a craggy peak, my antennae pick up the familiar electronic hum of her broadcasting equipment. Her cabin perches against the mountainside ahead, a defiant rectangle of warm light against the darkness. The sight of it sends my pulse racing faster than the flight here did.

Lead with the danger. That’s what matters.

But what if she doesn’t believe me? After what happened with her Sasquatch story, she might think this is someone’s idea of a cruel joke. The thought of her dismissing the warning—dismissing me—makes my wings stutter mid-flight.

A great horned owl watches my approach from a nearby pine, unimpressed. At least the local wildlife has gotten used to my presence during my… occasional fly-bys. Not stalking. Definitely not stalking. Just… protective observation.

Clandestine protective observation that’s about to become a lot more obvious.

The wind shifts, carrying her voice to my sensitive antennae. She’s still broadcasting, voice husky, yet smooth as silk as she discusses the finer points of chupacabra sightings. The familiar cadence steadies my nerves even as it sets my heart racing.

Focus. Lives are at stake. Hers included.

Landing silently on a sturdy pine branch with a clear view of her cabin, I take a moment to smooth my wing edges. Not out of vanity. Just… professional courtesy. First impressions matter when you’re about to upend someone’s reality.

Through her studio window, she's illuminated by the soft glow of equipment lights—headphones on, hands dancing across her soundboard with practiced grace. Every movement mesmerizes, even the simple act of tucking hair behind her ear makes my wings quiver. How many nights have I watched her like this, wanting to be closer but knowing I'd only inspire fear?

Her expression is animated as she talks, as though her callers are right there with her instead of scattered across the midnight airwaves. Finally, she signs off with one of her favorite catchphrases, “Thanks for listening. Remember, stay curious, stay cautious, and stay tuned for the next transmission.”

My antennae twitch at the thought of finally hearing that sultry voice in person, not through speakers or from a distance. They pick up the subtle vibrations of her backup generator, the hum of electronics, and the soft whir of her ceiling fan. All the small sounds that make up her world.

A world I’m about to crash into like a meteor.

After pressing a key on her keyboard, she removes her headphones. She rolls her shoulders, one hand moving to massage the back of her neck. Even through the window, I can see the fatigue in her posture. It’s now or never.

She deserves to know. She deserves a chance to protect herself.

The conviction that drove me here resurfaces, stronger than my doubts. She’s spent years giving voice to the strange and mysterious, creating space for stories like mine. Like ours. Even when it cost her everything.

Now it’s my turn to give her truth in return… no matter what happens next.

Drawing in a deep breath, I spread my wings. The rising moon silvers their edges as I glide down toward her porch. My hand, raised to knock, hesitates for just a moment.

Please don’t let her have that gun handy.