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

16. Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

R iven

Noon catches me making pancakes for the second time this morning. The first batch sits abandoned on the counter, gone cold while waiting for a sleeping DJ who keeps night owl hours. My eagerness to feed her, to care for her, made me forget her normal rhythms. Just as my eagerness to be near her makes me forget how my appearance affects her.

I hope there’s enough syrup for Chelsea when she finally wakes up to eat. My sweet tooth has been desperate lately and I devoured her stash of chocolate chips days ago. I’ve been eating syrup by the spoonful all morning.

The sound of the shower sends my antennae quivering. Setting the cold pancakes on the end of the counter, I start fresh, now newly familiar with her modern kitchen appliances. The first try was educational—now I know that the whisk is the perfect tool for the job, her electric griddle runs hot, and the coffeemaker requires a specific ritual to produce the perfect brew.

Last night’s closeness still hums through my wings, their glow dimmer now but still present. I hadn’t realized how keeping my distance affected my thoughts, but now that my brain fog has lifted, I see how sluggish my thinking had become.

I bask in last night’s memory of her tucked against my side, accepting my touch, my protection… Focus. The batter needs stirring.

Fresh coffee brews as footsteps pad down the hall. Chelsea appears in sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt, damp hair hanging in waves down her back. The sight steals my breath. She’s so beautiful it hurts—and makes my cock twitch.

“You made breakfast?” Her gaze lands on the plate of rejected pancakes. “Twice?”

“The first batch was practice.” Heat creeps up my neck. “Still learning your kitchen.”

A smile tugs at her lips. “You got up early just to make me breakfast?”

“Thought you might be hungry after…” After letting me stay. After trusting me enough to sleep with me in the house. After… everything.

“That’s…” Something soft crosses her expression. “That’s really sweet.”

The warmth in her voice makes my wings flicker brighter. Her raised eyebrow tells me she noticed, but doesn’t comment.

“These are perfect,” she says around a mouthful of fresh pancake. “Where’d you learn to cook?”

“Cliff is actually an amazing chef. Says it helps him focus his energy.” Just as I did when we shared pasta, I sit across from her, though I can’t help but wonder if it will ruin her appetite—she’s never hidden her disgust for my face. “Dante’s hopeless, though. Once burned rice so badly we had to throw away the pot.”

Her laugh is worth every minute spent mastering her kitchen. “Even with Cliff’s elbow grease?”

“Yep. Dante kept saying the devil made him do it as he laughed his ass off.”

Though she’s never met any of my friends other than Volt, I’ve mentioned them so often that she talks about them fondly, as though she knows them. The conversation flows easily as she devours the pancakes, and I try not to stare at how her wet hair darkens her shirt where it drips. Try not to remember how it felt to have her close last night, accepting my touch, my presence.

She shivers slightly, and before I can stop myself, I blurt, “I could braid your hair.”

Her fork pauses halfway to her mouth. “What?”

“It’s wet, and you’re cold, and I…” My wings dim further, betraying my need for contact. “I’m good with my hands.”

Understanding dawns as she nods. “You need to touch me.”

“Yes.” The admission burns. “But this way you wouldn’t have to look at me.”

The words hang between us, heavy with truth. She knows I’m aware of how my appearance affects her. How could I not be?

“Riven…”

“Please.” My voice comes out as rough as if I’d swallowed a mouthful of gravel. “Let me do this for you.”

A long moment passes before she nods. “Okay.”

After retrieving her brush and hair ties from her room, she hands them to me. Am I imagining things, or did she purposefully allow her hand to graze mine? No matter why it happened, it gives me a surge of energy as my wings glow a bit brighter. She sits sideways on the kitchen chair so I have access to her back.

The first touch of her hair against my fingers sends sparks of energy darting through my body. The red strands are like silk, heavy and cool against my skin. Starting at the ends, I work the brush through gently, careful not to pull.

A small sound escapes her as tension melts from her shoulders. Encouraged, I continue, each stroke methodical and tender. Her hair begins to dry under my steady attention, revealing subtle shades of copper and auburn that glimmer in the sunlight.

My energy ratchets higher with each pass of the brush, but I barely notice. All my focus narrows to the sensual slide of hair through my fingers and the way she gradually relaxes back toward me. The trust in that small movement nearly undoes me.

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.