Page 87 of Hex and the Kitty

He led her to the dance floor, one hand settling on her waist while the other enfolded her fingers. Unlike their dance at the Fireman’s Ball—formal despite their growing connection—this one carried comfortable intimacy. Molly relaxed into his embrace, her head finding the perfect resting place against his chest. His heartbeat thrummed beneath her ear, steady and strong.

“I could get used to this,” she murmured, eyes closed as they swayed to the music.

“Good.” His lips brushed her temple. “Because I intend to dance with you for the next several centuries, at minimum.”

The casual reference to their vastly different lifespans gave Molly pause. She’d avoided thinking about the implications—that his royal tiger lineage granted him near-immortality, while her witch heritage, though extending her natural lifespan, couldn’t match his centuries.

“Several centuries, huh?” she kept her tone light, though a new vulnerability opened within her. “That’s quite a commitment.”

Warrick’s movements stilled for a heartbeat before resuming their gentle sway. “Did you think this was temporary for me, Molly?”

She shook her head against his chest. “Not temporary, exactly. I just... haven’t thought much about the long-term logistics.”

His hand released hers, coming up to tip her chin until their eyes met. “There are ways,” he said quietly. “Magical bonds between mates that can align lifespans. My family has extensive knowledge about such things—accumulated over generations of royal shifters finding non-shifter partners.”

The revelation stunned her. “You’ve researched this?”

“Of course.” No hesitation colored his response. “From the moment I recognized you as my mate, I began considering our future. All aspects of it.”

Tears prickled behind Molly’s eyes at the matter-of-fact statement. While she’d been worrying about how quickly their relationship had progressed, he’d been planning for centuries together.

“That’s a conversation for another day,” he continued, brushing a stray curl from her forehead. “But know this—when a royal tiger shifter claims his mate, it’s for life. My life. Your life. However long we’re granted together.”

The promise—powerful in its simplicity—wrapped around Molly’s heart like a protective spell. She rose on tiptoes, pressing her lips to his in a kiss that conveyed everything words couldn’t express.

SEVENTY

“Alittle more wrist movement,” Molly demonstrated the proper technique for enchanting batter, her hands moving in fluid arcs above the mixing bowl. “Magic responds to intention plus choreography. You’re being too rigid.”

Three days after the community celebration, they’d settled into a comfortable rhythm at Warrick’s home—though Molly still caught herself thinking of it as “his” rather than “theirs.” This morning, she’d insisted on a baking lesson, claiming that any partner of hers needed at least rudimentary pastry skills.

Warrick stood across the kitchen island, face scrunched in concentration as he attempted to mimic her movements. His massive frame looked endearingly out of place amid the delicate cooking equipment—like a bull trying to navigate a china shop with painstaking care.

“Like this?” he asked, stirring the blueberry muffin batter while murmuring the incantation she’d taught him.

“Better, but loosen your grip on the?—“

The batter erupted before she could finish, bubbling violently before rising in a wobbly column that reminded her distressingly of her runaway dough disaster weeks earlier.

“I’m guessing that’s not supposed to happen,” Warrick remarked dryly, backing away as the batter continued its vertical ascent.

Molly bit her lip to suppress a laugh. “Not unless you’re trying to create a blueberry volcano. Quick—the countercharm:subsisto crescere.”

“Subsisto crescere,” he repeated, his accent mangling the Latin phrase beyond recognition.

Instead of subsiding, the batter column split into a dozen smaller blobs that drifted upward, hovering near the kitchen ceiling like bizarre blue balloons.

“Oh sweet cinnamon,” Molly whispered, watching her immaculate kitchen transform into an obstacle course of floating batter. “I think you accidentally saidseparo et elevar—separate and rise—instead of stop growing.”

Warrick glared at the nearest blob, which seemed to quiver under his golden gaze. He swiped at it, growling when it dodged his hand with seemingly intelligent awareness.

“Did that batter just...evade me?” Disbelief colored his tone.

“Magical baking ingredients respond to the baker’s essence,” Molly explained, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. “They recognize you now. And they’ve clearly picked up on your mood.”

“My mood is irritated,” he muttered, crossing his arms as the blobs retreated further toward the ceiling corners.

“Exactly. They can sense your frustration, so they’re hiding from the big bad tiger shifter.” She couldn’t contain her giggles any longer at the sight of Warrick—all six-foot-three of muscular, intimidating fire chief—being outmaneuvered by breakfast pastry ingredients.

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