Mothballs & Mistletoe

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Delaney

The Christmas lights were winning.

Delaney clung to the ice-slick shingles, boots braced on the top rung of a ladder that wouldn’t stop wobbling. Her numb fingers wrestled the last tangle of bulbs, each one snapping back as if it had a personal vendetta against her.

Grandpa would have had them strung up weeks ago.

She clipped the last strand to the gutter with a victorious click and gingerly descended. Her legs shook more from adrenaline than cold as she stepped back to admire the now blurring colors. It must be the sting of the cold air, she told herself. Not tears.

Her grandpa used to say Christmas lights kept the winter darkness at bay. He’d been wrong. The darkness had won three months ago when his heart gave out mid-sentence over coffee, and it had been eating her alive ever since.

Delaney swiped at her face and stomped toward the house, boots crunching through yesterday’s snow.

Inside, she peeled off layers that reeked of pine sap and sweat.

Dizziness hit, and she steadied herself against the wall.

The anxiety was back. That low hum in her bones, sharpening. Her constant companion these days.

She straightened her spine. Fine. She was fine. She just needed something warm.

In the kitchen, she filled the kettle and flicked it on. Instant cocoa tonight. She was too worn out for the real thing, so she made the sad, powdery kind. Grandpa’s version called for melted chocolate and cinnamon.

Her phone shrieked from the counter. Her stomach twisted. She didn’t look. It wasn’t necessary.

Debt collectors. It was always debt collectors.

When Grandpa died, she’d inherited everything. That included the tree farm but also the credit cards in her name—ones she’d set up for farm use years ago, back when she still believed this place could turn around. Not to mention the property taxes she had zero prayer of covering.

She’d burned her acceptance letter to college at eighteen. Her dream fed to the woodstove because the farm needed her more. It had been a simple choice then... But now she was losing both.

Delaney turned off her phone and poured boiling water into the misshapen mug she’d made with Grandma when she was eight. Even with the cracked glaze, the mug still held. Unlike everything else.

She wandered into the living room and sank into Grandpa’s armchair.

The old suede sighed beneath her, releasing the ghost of pipe tobacco from its seams. She wrapped both hands around the mug, letting heat seep into her chilled palms. Outside, the farm lay silent and stunted.

The rows of firs were patchy, years away from being ready for anyone’s living room.

There was nothing out there she could actually sell—no inventory, no income—and Christmas was days away.

Selling the land would be worse than drowning in debt. Somehow.

Del, you are going down with this ship. She knew it.

She rolled her neck, fighting the tightness, and reached for the remote.

Her eyes caught on the expensive cream envelope beside it, the one from Winter Pines that had been so kindly taped to her door.

A wildfire had taken forty percent of their developed trees a few summers back.

Ever since, the ski lodge had been circling.

Pressuring Grandpa to sell. Now pressuring her.

She gritted her teeth, grabbed the remote, and flicked on the old TV.

“—huge pressure drop in the region. Expect overnight wind chills to reach—”

A sound split the air, a low, hollow boom that vibrated up from the floorboards, like the mountain had coughed. The windows shuddered in their frames, cocoa sloshing onto her sweatpants and the chair.

“Shit!”

She lurched up, reaching for her phone on instinct. Empty pocket. Right. Kitchen. Heart hammering, she rushed outside in house slippers like an idiot and scanned the yard from the porch.

Nothing. The ancient tree baler sat unmoved. The rusted truck hunched in its usual spot next to her snowed-in car. Everything was business as usual.

You’re losing it. Finally booking that one-way ticket to the psych ward, Del.

Maybe she was. She’d been alone out here for weeks.

That did things to a person. She shook her head and went back inside.

The cocoa stain on Grandpa’s chair mocked her.

Perfect. Another thing ruined in her life.

She clenched her teeth and moved to the kitchen to wet a cloth, then back to the living room to blot uselessly at the fabric.

Something hit the roof. A dull, heavy sound, like boots on shingles. Every hair on her body stood up. Either Santa Claus had come early, or her night was about to get worse.

Footsteps crossed overhead. Slow. Measured. Like whatever was up there knew exactly where it was going.

The sound stopped.

Please, just be a raccoon. A really big raccoon.

Her gaze dragged to the window. Something massive pressed against the glass. Not human. Not even close to human-sized. Red eyes peered at her through the darkness. Her stomach dropped.

Move.

The thing blurred out of sight, and her survival instincts blissfully kicked in. Grandpa’s gun safe! It would still be in the barn because Grandma refused to keep firearms in the house. She had to get out there now.

Delaney bolted for the door, yanking it open and flying down the porch steps. Her slippers skidded on the ice, and she barely caught herself. Cold punched into her lungs—she’d left her coat behind, but there were more pressing concerns. Like not being horrifically murdered.

Behind her, something heavy landed in the snow. Close. Too close.

She didn’t look back. Couldn’t. Her breath came in panicked gasps, fogging the air, legs pumping as she ran for the barn’s dark outline fifty yards away.

Thirty yards.

Twenty.

Ten.

She was going to make it. She was—

Something slammed into her from behind. It wasn’t hard enough to hurt, but enough to send her stumbling forward into the barn’s open doorway. She caught herself on the doorframe, spinning around—and froze.

It stood between her and escape. It was towering over her like something out of a nightmare. Broad shoulders, powerful build, its throat wrapped in the most delicate white fur.

Oh.

When she’d seen it through the window, something had been covering the lower half of its face. Some kind of mask? She hadn’t had time to process. It wasn’t there now, from what she could see.

What remained was... intense.

Sharp features, angular and alien. His eyes glowed red—actually glowed, like embers—and swept over her with a hunger that made her skin prickle. Something curved back from its head. Horns? Antennae? They twitched slightly. The wings behind him were huge.

He was definitely the Mothman.

“Stay back.” Her voice shook. She pressed against the barn wall, searching blindly for anything she could use as a weapon. “I’m warning you!”

He moved. Not toward her, exactly. It was more like something drew him forward that he couldn’t control. A sound rumbled from his chest. Low, vibrating through the air between them. Almost like a purr. Or a growl. She couldn’t tell which.

“Don’t you dare.”

He closed the distance in two strides, and suddenly she understood exactly how big he was. He had to lean down to get close to her, arms caging her against the wall.

His face pressed into the curve of her neck.

Every muscle locked. Her breath caught. Shock. Something. Any second now, he’d rip her throat out. Her eyes squeezed shut.

But the pain never came.

He was just... rubbing his face against her neck.

Slow, deliberate movements that dragged his cheek and jaw against her skin.

His breath came hot and damp against her throat, carrying the scent of cold air and something floral.

Earthy, almost powdery. Not perfume. Something that smelled like it grew in the dirt.

Familiar, somehow. She couldn’t place it. Not with him this close.

What is he doing?

“Stop.”

He didn’t stop. If anything, he pressed closer, one arm curling around her waist—gentle but immovable. She barely came up to his chest. He had to hunch over her to keep his face buried against her neck, like he’d die if he couldn’t stay pressed against that spot.

That vibration. God, that vibration…

Her body reacted. Not fear. Or not just fear. Something else entirely. Heat pooling low in her belly, pulse jumping, skin flushing despite the cold. Her nipples tightened against the thick fabric of her shirt, and she could feel herself getting wet… which was wrong, on so many levels.

What the hell is happening to me?

She tried to push him away. Her hands landed on his chest—solid muscle, burning hot through whatever covered him—but he didn’t budge. Didn’t even seem to notice.

Another rumble. His nose traced up the line of her neck, behind her ear. His warm tongue dragged along her jaw, the heat of it searing against her chilled skin like a brand.

A whimper escaped her. Mortifying. Terrifying. She was terrified and turned on in equal measure, and her brain was screaming at her body to get its shit together.

“Please,” she managed. Not sure what she was begging for.

He pulled back slightly, just enough for those glowing red eyes to meet hers. For one suspended moment, they stared at each other. His pupils were blown wide. Those horn-things—antennae, she could see now—twitched on his head, perking up. He looked almost as wrecked as she felt. Almost.

His massive hand moved up, fingers skimming her ribs. Then he jerked back as if she’d shocked him. He took a deep, shuddering breath and then his eyes rolled back.

And he collapsed.

Delaney barely caught him—or tried to, anyway. He was heavy, and they both went down in a tangle of limbs and wings. She landed hard on her ass, his weight pinning her, face buried against her shoulder.

“What… what the fuck.”

She shoved him. Got nowhere. Tried again, slowly wiggling out from under him inch by agonizing inch until she finally extracted herself. He lay sprawled on the barn floor. Unconscious. Still breathing, chest rising, falling. Those wings spread around him like a dark halo.

Delaney scrambled backward until her back hit the workbench. It felt like her heart was trying to escape. Her hands shook. Her neck felt wet where he’d rubbed his face all over her like some kind of sexed-up wet dream.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about how that felt.

She needed to tie him up. Before he woke up and did whatever that was again. Or worse.

“Okay.” She pressed her palms to her thighs. “Okay. Get it together, Del.”

She could do this. She grabbed him under the arms and pulled.

Her back screamed. Her slippers were not providing much in the way of traction.

He weighed a ton, and maneuvering a dude with giant wings wasn’t making it any easier.

She gritted her teeth and dragged him inch by agonizing inch until his back hit the support beam.

He was sitting up, at least. Good enough for what came next.

Rope. She needed rope. The workbench. She grabbed it, wrapped it around his chest, looped it around the beam. Tied it tight. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. She tried not to tie it tight enough to hurt, but then again he had tried to... well, whatever it was he had tried to do.

She sat back on her heels, breathing hard. It was too dark. She needed to see what she was dealing with.

She reached up and flicked the switch on the support beam. The overhead bulb buzzed to life, bathing him in dusty yellow light. Delaney blinked. Then blinked again. What she was seeing didn’t make sense.

He wasn’t a monster. Well, obviously he wasn’t human, but he was gorgeous. Sharp cheekbones, white hair spilling over his forehead, and plump, kissable lips that honestly made her a little jealous. Sure, his features were a bit too angular, but the end result was…

No, we are not going to sexualize a weird Mothman that our brain conjured up in some kind of mental breakdown.

She abruptly stood and headed for the door. Stopped. Looked back with a begrudging sigh.

He was going to freeze out here. The temperature was already dropping, her breath visible in the air. He wasn’t dressed for this weather, wearing some kind of torn jumpsuit that had seen better days. Since when did a Mothman wear clothes, anyway?

“This is stupid,” she told the quiet barn. “I have officially lost it.”

But she went back to the house anyway, grabbed the space heater from the living room—the one that had been valiantly keeping her warm—and dragged it back to the barn. She plugged it in near him. Not close enough to burn. Just close enough that he wouldn’t freeze to death before morning.

“There.” She crossed her arms, looking down at his unconscious form. “Don’t die. I might try to sell you to the government, and they’d probably pay more if you were alive.”

He didn’t answer.

Her gaze lingered on him as she stood at the door. His wings. His face. The way his chest rose and fell. The way her body still felt hot and strange.

She flicked off the overhead light and pulled the barn door shut behind her. The old latch clicked into place, for all the good that would do.

She trudged back to the house. The Christmas lights were flashing so brightly against the snow that they made her eyes ache. She yanked the cord from the outlet near the porch, plunging the yard into darkness, and stumbled inside.

She collapsed against the door and slid down to the floor. Her legs couldn’t hold her anymore.

Delaney pressed shaking hands to her face and tried very, very hard not to think about the massive Mothman in her barn.