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

14. Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

C helsea

The two a.m. hour wraps around my little broadcast room like a familiar blanket, equipment lights blinking in the darkness beyond my desk lamp’s warm circle. Through the window, a crescent moon hangs above snow-capped peaks. It’s the perfect atmosphere for tonight’s open-line segment.

“Welcome back, night owls… and other creatures of the night.” My voice drops into its signature smoky tone. “Time for your calls, your stories, your brushes with the unknown. Line three, you’re live with Nocturna. What’s keeping you up tonight?”

“My cat is Elvis.” The woman’s voice is forceful with conviction. “Not just any Elvis. The Elvis.”

Movement catches my eye as Riven slips into the room. It’s been over a week since Volt carried him to my porch. He’s no longer banished to the trees to watch my broadcast through the windows. He settles into what’s become his usual spot—close enough to pass notes, far enough to maintain our careful dance of almost-normalcy. Something’s off about his posture tonight. His wings are duller than usual and his antennae are droopy, but he manages a tired smile.

“Fascinating.” Focusing back on the caller. “What makes you sure your cat is the King?”

“Well, first there’s the peanut butter and banana thing. Can’t keep them in the house. And last night? Caught him doing hip thrusts at his reflection!”

A note slides across my desk in Riven’s elegant handwriting: Ask if the cat’s been spotted at any suspicious wedding chapels.

Fighting back a grin, I lean into my Nocturna persona. “Have you considered that perhaps your cat is merely an Elvis tribute artist? The feline scene is quite competitive these days.”

“No, no—he’s the real deal! Yesterday he meowed ‘Love Me Tender’ perfectly in tune!”

Another note appears: Does he do private purr-formances?

The pun is so terrible I almost break character and laugh out loud. “Thank you for sharing your… unique situation. Perhaps your cat would consider calling in himself next time?”

“Oh, he’s shy about phone interviews. Says they don’t capture his true essence.”

“Of course. Feel free to put a video in the chat comments if you can catch him in action.”

Riven’s shoulders shake with silent laughter, but there’s strain around his eyes.

“Line two, you’re live with Nocturna.”

“Yeah, so like, I’ve got this theory about Bigfoot.” The caller’s voice has that particular late-night conspiracy edge. “What if—hear me out—what if Bigfoot is actually an alien wearing a Sasquatch suit?”

Riven’s note appears almost instantly: Cliff—resident Sasquatch— will be devastated. He pays good money for his fur care products. He’ll be indignant at some cheesy alien impersonator in a fake fur suit.

Biting back laughter, I put on my serious radio voice. “Interesting theory. What led you to this conclusion?”

“Well, I’ve been tracking UFO sightings, right? And they perfectly match up with Bigfoot encounters if you just flip the map upside down and hold it under a black light!”

“Remarkable methodology.”

Riven’s actually wheezing silently now, wings quivering with suppressed mirth. Although aspects of his face are still gross, if I zero in on that mouth, it’s—. I stop myself before the word “kissable” invades my thoughts. “Have you considered publishing your findings?”

“Can’t. The alien-Sasquatch alliance would suppress it. They control the academic journals, you know.”

“Such a shame. It sounds like truly groundbreaking research.”

I glance at Riven just as he slides another note: I hear the Journal of Cryptid Sciences has a strict ‘no yeti peer reviewers’ policy. Discrimination if you ask me.

The next caller starts describing the coded messages he’s receiving from the Centauri system when I notice Riven’s laughter has stopped. His wings droop more than usual and his antennae lie flat against his hair. Something’s definitely wrong.

“Line four, you’re live.”

“Long-time listener.” The man’s voice carries an edge that instantly shifts the mood. “Been seeing some strange activity up near Starfire Peak in Colorado. Men in suits, equipment I’ve never seen before. They’ve got this symbol everywhere—like a maze inside a circle?”

Riven straightens, all humor vanishing. He moves closer, as if to write something, but his hand trembles visibly. Without thinking, I gesture him closer to my mic.

For a moment, all thought escapes me as his breath ghosts over my cheek. Our gazes lock and something arcs between us. It’s so powerful, it’s almost as electric as that first moment I touched him when I tried to push him off the porch. It’s so remarkable I have to suppress a gasp.

“Actually,” my voice stays steady only by force of will, “we have a radio frequency engineer here tonight who might have some questions about that equipment. Could you describe it in more detail?”

Riven eases even closer, his warmth immediate and distracting. His wings curl forward slightly, as though he’s trying hard not to touch me without permission in this cramped space.

“Looks military grade,” the caller continues, “but unmarked. They’re taking readings or something. And get this—they’ve got your show playing in their van. Overheard them talking about tracking signal patterns…”

Riven sways slightly, and suddenly the few inches between us feel like too much. My hand finds his before he gets any weaker. Our fingers interlace naturally, as though we’ve done it hundreds of times.

The effect is instantaneous and overwhelming. His wings unfurl to their full capacity and explode with golden light, bathing us in warm radiance. A small sound escapes him—part gasp, part something deeper that makes heat rush to my face… then lower. His fingers tighten around mine, skin impossibly warm, sending tingles up my arm.

Somehow, he manages to ask the caller technical questions in a remarkably steady voice, thumb tracing hypnotic patterns on my palm. Each small movement sends shivers darting through me. My own fingers explore the fascinating texture of his skin—not quite human, smooth but slightly textured.

When the caller hangs up, I reach for the ad button with my free hand. “And now, truth seekers, a word from our sponsors…” The familiar jingle for Dragon’s Breath Mints—now with extra charcoal, fills the silence.

Neither of us moves to break contact. His thumb is still tracing lazy circles on my palm, each sweep sending sparks of electricity up my arm. His other hand cradles our joined ones, creating an intimate nest of warmth. The contrast between his slightly rougher skin and the gentleness of his touch makes my breath catch.

“I need to tell you something.” His voice drops lower, serious, with a resonance that vibrates through me. “After the show. About the caller, about Apex… about everything.”

“Okay.” I know something’s wrong—I’ve watched him all week, seen the weight settle heavier on his broad shoulders, noticed how he grows weaker by the day, his worry etched deeper with each passing hour. “After the show.”

He wraps his wing around me, the gesture tentative yet somehow profound. The golden membrane filters the harsh studio lights into something softer, more intimate. Being cocooned in his protection, his essence, makes me shiver from the sheer emotional force of it. His wing’s warmth seeps into my skin, and the subtle glowing patterns etched across its surface seem to pulse in time with our heartbeats.

“Uh. Sorry.” He starts to withdraw, uncertainty clear in the way his antennae flatten against his hair.

“No.” The words “I like it” burn on my tongue, unspoken but undeniable. This feeling—this perfect sense of sanctuary—is pure bliss. My body acts without conscious thought, nestling closer until I’m tucked against his side. His t-shirt is soft against my cheek, and I’m acutely aware of how his chest rises and falls with each breath. The thick hair that Vs down from his neck is hidden, making it easier to forget what he is—or maybe I’m finally seeing who he is beneath his otherness.

His wing tightens around me fractionally, and his thumb resumes its hypnotic patterns on the back of my hand. Each stroke feels more intimate than a kiss, mapping unknown territories of sensation across my skin. His other fingers interlace with mine more firmly, as though he’s afraid I’ll pull away. As if I could.

The realization hits like a thunderbolt: as much as he’s been attracted to me since that first electric touch, I must be drawn to him, too. Every moment of fear and hesitation has been fighting against this inexorable pull. This… rightness.

His antennae quiver, mirroring my quickening pulse, and he draws in a shaky breath that matches my own unsteady breathing. The golden light from his wings intensifies, creating patterns across our joined hands that look like constellations—as if we’re holding a piece of the night sky between our palms.

The sponsor’s jingle fades, warning of the show’s imminent return, but for these precious seconds, we exist in a pocket universe of amber light and shared breath. His warmth, his scent—something wild and electric, like ozone before a storm—surrounds me. The steady rhythm of his heart beneath my cheek speaks louder than words, telling stories of protection and possession, of boundaries crossed and barriers crumbling.

The countdown timer turns red. More calls await—the usual mix of conspiracy theories and supernatural encounters. But nothing feels quite normal anymore. Not with his hand warming mine, his wings creating a private cocoon, his presence both thrilling and somehow right.

Questions press against my mind. About Apex. About the mate bond I pretend not to understand. About why this simple touch feels like coming home.

But for now, there are stories to hear. Mysteries to unravel. And the warmth of his hand in mine, anchoring me through it all.

Some revelations can wait a few more hours.

Some truths are better spelled out in touch than in words.

And some boundaries, once crossed, can never be rebuilt.

My fingers tighten around his as another caller begins their story, his answering pressure a promise and a warning all at once.