Page 85 of Hex and the Kitty

“I know,” she sighed. “He barely sleeps, always listening for me in case I have another nightmare. Yesterday he called from the station three times during his shift just to check on me.”

“That’s love, honey.” Celeste’s smile turned knowing. “Especially for a man who spent three centuries perfecting emotional detachment.”

The simple observation struck Molly with unexpected force. Love. Not obligation or responsibility or temporary infatuation—but love in its rawest, most enduring form. The kind that rewrote centuries of careful solitude. The kind that made a royal tiger shifter hover anxiously over a witch with a healing concussion.

Across the room, Warrick excused himself from the conversation, moving toward her with purposeful strides. He navigated the chaos of decorating with fluid grace, his eyes never leaving her face.

“How’s the head?” he asked quietly when he reached her side, one large hand settling at the small of her back.

“Still attached,” she replied with forced lightness.

His fingers found her chin, tilting her face up to his. The gentle touch contrasted with the intensity of his gaze as he studied her. “Truth, Molly.”

The quiet command, delivered with such tender concern, crumbled her bravado. “It hurts,” she admitted. “Not terribly, but enough.”

Without a word, he guided her toward a nearby chair, his body creating a protective barrier between her and the bustling activity. Once seated, Molly closed her eyes briefly, grateful for the momentary reprieve.

“I should take you home,” Warrick suggested, crouching before her so their eyes met at equal level.

The gesture struck her—this powerful man, this apex predator, deliberately making himself less imposing for her comfort. Something warm unfurled in her chest, flowing outward until her fingertips tingled with it.

“I’m okay,” she assured him, reaching to trace the worry line between his brows. “Truly. Just needed a moment.”

His golden eyes studied her face, searching for any hint of deception about her condition. Without warning, he slipped one arm behind her back and the other beneath her knees, lifting her effortlessly from the chair.

“Warrick!” she gasped, automatically looping her arms around his neck.

“You need rest,” he said simply, holding her against his chest as if she weighed nothing. The solid warmth of him surrounded her, his heartbeat strong and steady beneath her ear.

Molly knew she should protest—being carried through a crowded community center like some fairy tale damsel hardly matched her independent nature. Yet the protective cradle of his arms felt undeniably right, his strength offered not to control but to support.

“My tiger needs to hold his mate,” he murmured, his voice pitched low enough that only she could hear. “Let me take care of you.”

Once, such a statement might have triggered her independence reflex. Now, she recognized the gift being offered—not limitation, but the profound devotion of someone who had found his center in her well-being.

“You already do,” she whispered, nestling closer against his chest. “Every day. Every way.”

Around them, the community center’s activity continued, but Molly registered nothing beyond the gentle possession of his mouth on hers, the subtle woodsy scent that clung to his skin, the steadying weight of his hand at her nape.

Someone cleared their throat nearby. “If you two could save the personal moments for somewhere without an audience of elementary school volunteers, that would be great.”

Ellie’s amused voice broke through their bubble. Molly pulled back reluctantly, heat rising to her cheeks as she noticed several young shifter children giggling behind their hands.

“Sorry,” she muttered, though the apology lacked conviction.

“No, you’re not.” Ellie laughed. “And you shouldn’t be. It’s refreshing to see the chief looking like a lovestruck teenager instead of scowling at potential fire hazards.”

“I don’t scowl,” Warrick protested, rising to his full height.

“You absolutely do,” Ellie countered cheerfully. “Or did, until a certain redheaded witch got under your skin.”

Rather than appearing offended, Warrick’s expression softened as he gazed down at Molly. “Guilty as charged.”

The simple admission—offered without reservation before friends and townsfolk—warmed Molly more thoroughly than any heating spell. This man, who had spent centuries carefully guarding his emotions, now openly acknowledged their bond without hesitation or qualification.

Mayor Cedric’s arrival interrupted the moment. “The stage is ready whenever you are,” he informed Molly, his golden dragon-shifter eyes gleaming with approval as he noted Warrick’s protective stance beside her chair.

“I’ll be right there,” she promised, giving her mate “the look.”

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