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

17. Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen

C helsea

The maze symbol has been nagging at my brain like an itch I can’t scratch. Standing before the wall of file cabinets at one end of my broadcast room, hands on hips, I mutter, “It’s here somewhere.”

“You could just digitize everything.” Riven leans against the doorframe, wings catching morning light in a way that’s becoming distractingly beautiful. “Join the twenty-first century. Just a thought.” He gives a jaunty shrug.

“Says the cryptid using a smartphone.” The tease comes naturally now, especially when his antennae twitch with amusement. “It may not look it, but there’s method to my madness.”

“Enlighten me.” He moves closer, and the air seems to thicken between us.

“Remember how I lost everything over the Sasquatch story?” The drawer labeled “Kitchen Recipes” slides open with a familiar screech. “Wasn’t just bad luck. Someone hacked my cloud storage and found my research.”

His wings pull tight against his back—a gesture I’m learning means distress. “What happened?”

“Former colleague. She leaked everything online after twisting it to make me sound crazy.” The memory still stings. “Posted about my ‘descent into paranoid conspiracy theories.’ After that, the Sasquatch article was just the final nail in my career’s coffin.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice carries such genuine empathy that my throat tightens. “That’s why everything’s on paper?”

“Harder to hack file cabinets.” Pulling out a thick folder, I tap its misleading label: “Grandma’s Cookie Recipes.” “Good luck figuring out my filing system.”

“Try me.” His lips quirk in a way that makes my stomach flip. When did that start happening?

“Okay…” Finding the right drawer, I gesture dramatically. “‘Kitchen Recipes’ holds all my research on food-related phenomena—levitating lunch meat, toast with pictures of religious icons, and that one diner in Nebraska where the coffee literally never gets cold. Because where better to hide mysterious meal reports than between actual recipes?”

His expression is unreadable. Is he bored? Fascinated?

“‘Tax Returns’ actually contains all my research on government coverups. Because what’s scarier than an audit?”

His laugh feels like warm honey in my chest. “And ‘Christmas Card Lists’?”

“Mysterious disappearances. Because who really knows where all those distant relatives went?”

I flinch for a moment, surprised that I mentioned relatives. I still have an open wound when I think about my parents’ deaths in a car crash when I was in college. The fact that I brought it up tells me I trust this male more than I thought.

He moves closer, peering at more labels. Our arms brush, sending shivers through me. His wing curves slightly around me—not quite touching, just… there. Available. Protective.

“‘Knitting Patterns’?”

“Cryptozoological sightings, organized by region.” Heat rises in my cheeks as I admit, “That’s where the Sasquatch files are now.”

His expression softens. “May I?”

The drawer opens to reveal meticulous notes, blurry photographs, and maps. His fingers brush mine as we sift through papers, and his wings glow brighter at each contact.

“These are incredible.” There’s awe in his voice as he examines my research. “The detail, the cross-referencing… you really cared about getting it right.”

“Fat lot of good it did.” But his obvious respect eases an old ache. “After Melanie leaked everything, no one would touch my work. Couldn’t even get freelance gigs writing restaurant reviews.”

“Melanie.” His voice carries thunder. “The colleague?”

“Yeah. We used to…” The words stick in my throat as I shrug. “I thought we were friends.”

His wing brushes my shoulder—comfort without demands. “Tell me?”

“We started as rivals at the paper, but somehow… she became my best friend. Or I thought she did.” The familiar burn of betrayal rises. “When I first found evidence of Sasquatch, I was so excited to share it with someone who’d understand…”

“She used your trust against you.” His anger vibrates through his antennae.

“Posted everything. My research, my personal notes, even…” Swallowing hard, I admit, “Even texts where I talked about feeling alone, wanting to believe in something bigger than myself. Made me sound desperate and pathetic.”

“You’re neither.” His voice is full of passion as his wing curls completely around me, solid and warm. “You’re brilliant. Look at all this—the connections you’ve made, the patterns you’ve found. She couldn’t handle your insight, your courage to chase truth instead of accepting the easy answers.”

The genuine admiration in his voice makes me brave enough to meet his gaze directly. His odd, citrine eyes hold such fierce conviction that something in my chest cracks open.

“You really think that?”

“I know it.” His free hand finds mine, fingers intertwining naturally. “You gave up everything to stand by your principles. That’s not pathetic. It’s… extraordinary.”

The warmth of his praise spreads through me like sunlight. When did his touch start feeling so right? When did his alienness become just… him?

“Well,” clearing my throat against sudden emotion, “at least my paranoid filing system means no one else can steal my work.”

“About that…” His antennae twitch with renewed humor. “‘Sock Drawer Inventory’?”

“Supernatural phenomena. Because they’re always disappearing mysteriously.”

“‘Garden Planning’?”

“Alien abductions. Crop circles, you know?”

His delighted laughter vibrates through his wing and into my bones. We spend the next hour exploring my filing system, his commentary growing increasingly creative.

Another drawer reveals more mysteries: “‘Cookie Recipes from Pinterest’—definitely about blood-drinking cryptids.”

“Actually, those are real cookie recipes.” At his surprised look, I grin. “Best place to hide a tree is in the forest.”

“Let me guess—’Aunt Mabel’s Bridge Club’ is actually about interdimensional portals?”

“Close! Secret government tunnels. Because where else would those ladies get their gossip?”

His answering smile crinkles the corners of his eyes in a way that makes my heart stutter. Speaking of bridges, I’ve definitely moved from being terrified and revolted by his appearance and moved to… finding him attractive. The wiry-looking hair on his neck and around his eyes is now beckoning me. I want to touch it. Maybe it won’t be so… repugnant after all.

When I return my attention to my files, I spot it—a folder labeled “Summer Camp Arts & Crafts.”

“That’s it!” The memory clicks. “I’ve seen that maze symbol before—it was in an article about corporate logos with occult meanings!”

Together, we spread the contents across my desk. His warmth at my back, wings creating a private space around us, feels natural now. Right.

“There.” His finger lands on a newspaper clipping. The maze symbol appears in the corner of an advertisement for a tech startup’s recruitment drive. The article dates back three years.

“‘Apex Evolution Technologies seeks innovative minds for groundbreaking research’,” I read aloud. “‘Competitive salary, excellent benefits, chance to reshape reality as we know it.’ Well, that’s not ominous at all.”

“Look at the location.” His breath stirs my hair, sending shivers down my spine.

“The same mountain range where you…” The implications sink in. “They’ve been planning this for years .”

His wings pull tighter around us both. “We’ll figure it out.”

“We?” The word comes out softer than intended.

“Yes, we.” His hand finds mine again, the squeeze gently reassuring. “You’re not alone anymore.”

The declaration hangs between us, heavy with promise. His wing-light bathes us both in soft gold, and I realize I’m leaning against him, our fingers still intertwined.

When did this happen? When did his presence stop being something to endure? When did it morph into something I crave?

“Thank you.” The words encompass everything—his support, his protection, his unwavering belief in me.

His other arm slides around my waist, and my breath catches at the intimacy of being held like this. “For what?”

“For seeing me. The real me. Not the crazy conspiracy theorist or the failed journalist. Just… me.”

One of his antennae brushes my hair in such a slow, precise way I assume it has deep meaning in his species. “Thank you for seeing me, too. For looking past…”

“Past what?” Turning in his arms, I meet his gaze directly. “Past these?” My fingers trace one of his antennae gently, drawing a sharp inhale from him. “Or these?” My other hand strokes his wing where it curves around us.

His antennae is silken, featherlike, and his wing is the softest gossamer.

His eyes darken to molten gold, sparking with desire. “Chelsea…”

A knock at the front door shatters the moment. We spring apart like guilty teenagers, though his wings maintain their brilliant glow.

“That’ll be Dante.” His voice sounds as shaken as I feel. “He said he might stop by.”

My heart rabbits in my chest as I imagine men in black behind my front door. Riven must see my panic because he wiggles his antennae and adds, “I can tell his energy signature, Chelsea. It’s Dante. He’s cool and probably has news to share.”

“Right. News. Good.” I try to slow my racing heart by taking deep breaths. “We should…”

“Yeah.”

But as we head to the front door, his wing brushes my back—a promise, a question, a continuation of whatever just sparked between us.

Later, I tell myself. We’ll figure this out later.

For now, there are mysteries to solve, dangers to face, and a growing certainty that my careful filing system isn’t the only barrier being dismantled piece by piece.