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

11. Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

R iven

The generator’s been driving me crazy for days. Its irregular cough and sputter carry through the pre-dawn air, a mechanical death rattle that threatens Chelsea’s broadcasts. Not that she’s asked for help. Not that she knows I’m here, crouched in the dirt at five AM, trying to focus on copper wiring instead of the bone-deep ache of separation.

Last night’s invitation changed everything and nothing. Yes, she let me in. Yes, her touch lit up my wings and eased the pain. But I imagine she’ll awaken with new barriers and fresh hesitation.

Refocusing on my task, I note the generator’s core issue is simple enough—corroded connections and frayed wires. Amateur repair job by someone who…

A massive shape looms suddenly, blocking the weak light of approaching dawn. My wings snap open defensively before I recognize the distinctive profile.

“Easy, kid.” Cliff’s rumbling whisper carries surprising gentleness for someone his size. “Volt said you might need a hand. And, you know, I was in the neighborhood.” The huge Sasquatch shrugs, then gives me a smile. For someone whose very existence seems to terrify humans, he’s such a calm, affable guy.

“I’ve got it under control.” The lie dissolves into a hiss of pain as my vision blurs.

“Clearly.” His enormous hand steadies me before I can topple onto the generator. “Which is why you’re out here, barely able to stand, doing maintenance in the dark.”

“The generator’s sputtering was bothering her sleep schedule.” The admission feels too revealing.

Cliff’s deep chuckle vibrates through the ground. “Right. Nothing to do with you being physically incapable of staying away from your mate.”

“She’s not—” The protest cuts off as another wave of weakness hits. “Just help me fix this before she wakes up.”

“Already called reinforcements.”

As if on cue, more shapes materialize from the shadows. Dante’s distinctive horns catch the last remnants of moonlight as he arrives with… is that a toolbox? Behind him, several younger Sasquatches carry equipment I can’t quite make out through increasingly fuzzy vision.

“Hold him up,” Dante directs, taking charge with characteristic efficiency. “And someone keep watch. Last thing we need is the lady of the house catching her cryptid and his repair crew in action.”

“I’m not her cryptid,” I manage weakly, even as Cliff’s support becomes the only thing keeping me vertical.

“Sure, sure.” Dante’s clawed fingers make surprisingly delicate adjustments to the wiring. “You’re just the completely unattached Mothman who’s killing himself to maintain her equipment. Totally normal, non-cryptid behavior.”

One of the younger Sasquatches drops a wrench with a clang that seems to echo across the mountain valley. Everyone freezes.

A light flicks on inside.

“If she sees all of you…” Panic gives me a burst of strength.

“Relax.” Dante doesn’t even look up from his work. “Big guy’s got it covered.”

Sure enough, Cliff is already moving, his natural camouflage abilities extending to shield our entire group from view. Just in time—Chelsea appears at her window, scanning the yard.

For a moment, her silhouette against the warm light behind her makes my chest ache with more than just physical pain. Then she shakes her head and disappears, hopefully going back to bed.

“You’ve got it bad, my friend.” Dante’s voice holds something between sympathy and amusement as the Jersey Devil closes the generator’s panel. “But at least her equipment’s good now. Should run quiet as a shadow crossing the moon.”

“Thank you.” The words come out rough. “All of you.”

“Save your strength.” Cliff adjusts his grip as my legs threaten to give out entirely. “Volt’s worried. Says you’re pushing the separation limits too far.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re about as ‘fine’ as a porcupine in a balloon shop.” Dante packs up his tools with practiced efficiency. “But since you’re determined to do this the hard way…”

A sound from the house silences us all. Footsteps on the stairs.

“Time to go.” Cliff helps me into the shadows before joining the others in their swift retreat.

Dawn breaks over the mountain as I sink against a tree, watching Chelsea emerge onto her porch. She approaches the generator cautiously, then stops. Her hand rests on the now-quietly-humming machine.

“New fun fact. Boundaries mean nothing to mothmen,” she mutters, but there’s something almost fond in her tone.

If she notices the faint glow of my wings in the shadows, she doesn’t let on. Some thresholds, it seems, take more than one night to cross.

But as she turns to retreat, her quiet “thank you” carries clearly in the morning air.

Worth it. Even as exhaustion claims me, that thought remains. Worth every moment of pain, just to earn that trace of trust in her voice.

The sun rises. Another day of keeping my distance begins.

At least now her generator won’t keep her awake.