Page 84 of Hex and the Kitty

Her heart performed a complicated acrobatic routine in her chest. “Are you asking me to move in with you, Chief Shaw?”

“Yes.” He navigated a turn, his eyes fixed on the road. “Though, if it’s too soon?—“

“It’s perfect,” she interrupted, her voice soft but certain. “After everything that’s happened, I don’t want to waste another minute pretending we’re not exactly where we should be.”

Warrick braked sharply, pulling to the curb. The car had barely stopped when he turned to her, golden eyes blazing with an emotion that stole her breath.

“Say that again.”

“Which part?” Her pulse quickened at the intensity of his gaze. “The ‘it’s perfect’ part or the ‘where we should be’ part?”

“All of it,” he growled softly, leaning across the console.

“I want to be with you,” she whispered, meeting him halfway. “Every day. Every night. No more pretending this is anything other than what it is—two people who’ve found exactly where they belong.”

His hand cradled her face with exquisite tenderness, thumb tracing the curve of her cheekbone. “Do you have any idea what you do to me, Molly Hues?”

Before she could formulate a clever response, his lips claimed hers. Unlike the careful kiss in the elevator, this one carried raw honesty—the passion of a man who’d feared losing his mate, the reverence of someone who understood the rarity of true connection, the promise of a future neither had expected but both now fiercely wanted.

When they finally parted, Molly’s fingers had somehow tangled in his hair, and his hands gripped her waist with barely restrained strength.

“We should probably continue this conversation somewhere more private,” she suggested, her voice husky.

The drive to Warrick’s home took less than five minutes, but Molly’s awareness stretched each second into an eternity. His hand returned to hers after each gear shift, his thumb tracing idle patterns on her skin that sent shivers cascading through her body.

They pulled up to his single-story with the large picture window she loved.

“Home sweet home,” Warrick murmured as they came to a stop.

The word “home” reverberated through Molly’s chest. How many times had she created that feeling for others through her bakery, her pastries, her welcoming smile—all while maintaining a careful emotional distance in her own apartment? The thought of truly sharing space, of waking beside Warrick each morning and falling asleep in his arms each night, filled her with a joy so intense it bordered on terror.

“Second thoughts?” he asked quietly, reading her expression with uncanny accuracy.

She shook her head. “Just realizing how perfectly this fits. Us. Here. Together.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s everything I never let myself want.”

Warrick brought her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Then let’s go inside, baker witch. Your new home awaits.”

SIXTY-EIGHT

The community center hummed with activity five days later. Molly stood amid a whirlwind of decorations, clipboard in hand, directing the transformation of the space. Where the Fireman’s Ball had featured elegant restraint, this victory celebration embraced vibrant jubilation.

“The east wall needs another layer of protective charms,” she called to Daisy, who balanced precariously on a stepladder. “I can feel a weak spot near the window.”

“On it!” Daisy’s pink hair bobbed as she traced intricate sigils in the air, her tongue caught between her teeth in concentration.

Molly checked another item off her list, wincing slightly as a dull throb pulsed behind her temples. Luna’s headache remedy worked wonders, but by evening, its effects began to fade.

Cool fingers touched her forehead. Molly turned to find Celeste studying her with concern.

“The pain’s back,” Celeste stated rather than asked, her emerald eyes narrowing. “You should be resting, not organizing an entire town celebration.”

“I’m fine,” Molly insisted, though she leaned gratefully into her friend’s healing touch. “Besides, sitting alone with my thoughts isn’t exactly the best medicine right now.”

Understanding softened Celeste’s expression. They hadn’t discussed the emotional aftermath of the beam injury—how Molly startled at sudden noises, how she sometimes woke gasping from dreams where the beam struck with deadlier accuracy, how she occasionally found herself touching the healing skin at her temple to reassure herself she was whole.

“He’s worried about you,” Celeste murmured, glancing toward the entrance. “We all are.”

Molly followed her gaze to where Warrick stood with Reed and David, the three men surveying the transformed space with professional assessment. Even from across the room, she could feel the weight of his attention—though he appeared engaged in conversation, his awareness tracked her movements with unwavering focus.

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