Page 82 of Hex and the Kitty

“Shh.” She silenced him with a finger against his lips. “I’m right here. Not going anywhere.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” She shifted slightly, making room beside her on the narrow hospital bed. “Hold me?”

Carefully, mindful of the IV line still attached to her arm, Warrick eased onto the mattress. Molly immediately curled against him, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder as if designed to fit precisely there. Her warmth seeped into him, chasing away the last vestiges of cold dread.

“Your arm,” she murmured, noticing the knife wound. “Dark magic.”

“Luna gave me something for it. It can wait.”

Molly made a small sound of disagreement. “Let me see.”

Before he could protest, she placed her palm over the wound. A soft glow emanated from her fingers—not the brilliant white of the healing circle, but a gentler, rose-gold radiance that carried her unique magical signature.

Warmth spread from the point of contact, followed by a tingling sensation as the dark magic was neutralized and expelled. The wound didn’t close completely—even witch magic had its limits—but the angry red edges faded to pink, and the throbbing pain subsided to a dull ache.

“You shouldn’t be using magic yet,” he scolded gently, though gratitude colored his voice.

“Just a little one,” she replied, settling back against him. “Worth it.”

Warrick tightened his arm around her, careful not to disturb her injuries. Outside the window, dawn approached, painting the sky in delicate pinks and lavenders. A new day for Whispering Pines. A new beginning for them.

“Get some rest,” he murmured into her hair. “I’ll be right here when you wake.”

Her breathing deepened as she drifted toward sleep, safe and content in his embrace. Warrick remained awake, keeping watch as the first rays of sunlight filtered through the blinds.

Three hundred years of existence had taught him many things: languages long forgotten, skills grown obsolete, histories rewritten by the victors. But it had never taught him this—the profound peace of holding your heart in your arms, knowing your future had found its home.

That lesson had required a witch with fiery curls and a talent for magical baking. It had required a town of cobblestone streets and supernatural acceptance. It had required friends who showed up without being asked, who gave without expecting anything in return.

It had required Molly. It had required Whispering Pines.

And finally, after centuries of wandering, Warrick Shaw had found exactly where he belonged.

SIXTY-SIX

Sunshine streamed through the hospital window, catching on the vibrant orange-red petals of the “Fire & Spice” roses beside Molly’s bed. She traced a finger along one silky bloom, remembering the intensity in Warrick’s golden eyes when he’d placed them on her nightstand three days ago. The petals seemed to pulse with warmth under her touch, almost like they contained actual embers—a fitting gift from a man whose protection burned as fiercely as any flame.

“These discharge forms aren’t going to sign themselves,” Nurse Willow said, her blue-tinged water nymph skin shimmering under the fluorescent lights as she approached the bed. She narrowed her eyes at Molly’s eager posture. “Though I’m not convinced you’re ready to leave. That beam hit you hard.”

Molly accepted the clipboard. “Luna’s herbal remedy cleared the last of the concussion fog.” She signed her name with a flourish, the looping letters dancing across the page. “Besides, hospital pudding can only sustain a witch for so long.”

“Hmph. Don’t come crying back when your head starts spinning because you ignored medical advice.” Despite her gruff tone, concern softened Nurse Willow’s features. “Those magical remedies of Luna’s might work wonders, but the body heals at its own pace.”

The door swung open before Molly could respond. Her heart leaped at the sight of Warrick filling the doorframe—how did he always manage to make standard-sized openings look miniature? He stood motionless for a heartbeat, his steady gaze sweeping over her with such thoroughness that heat bloomed across her skin.

“You’re dressed,” he observed, voice low as he crossed the room in three long strides.

“Disappointed?” Molly teased, though her breath caught when his fingers brushed her cheek, lingering against her skin as if reassuring himself she was truly whole.

The corner of his mouth quirked upward—that subtle half-smile that had once been so rare but now appeared with increasing frequency. “Only that I missed helping you.”

David Rhodes appeared in the doorway, clearing his throat with exaggerated loudness. “If you two could postpone the googly eyes for five minutes, I brought the car around.”

Molly laughed, rising carefully from the bed. The floor tilted momentarily beneath her feet—not enough to concern her, but sufficient for Warrick’s hand to find her elbow, steadying her with gentle firmness. The heat of his palm radiated through her cardigan sleeve, and she found herself leaning into his touch.

“I can walk perfectly fine,” she protested, though she made no move to increase the space between them.

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