Page 83 of Hex and the Kitty

“Humor me.” The quiet request carried more weight than a command.

Her hospital room had transformed during her three-day stay. Crystal formations lined the windowsill—Celeste’s protective work. Get-well cards that sang silly songs when opened covered the bedside table—Daisy’s cheerful magic. A hand-knitted blanket in swirls of green and gold lay rumpled at the foot of the bed—Mari’s loving handiwork. Each item represented the web of connections that made Whispering Pines home.

Warrick gathered the flowers while David collected her small duffel bag. Molly surveyed the room one last time, a lump forming in her throat at this tangible evidence of how deeply she was loved.

“Ready?” Warrick asked softly, his free hand finding the small of her back.

“Beyond ready.”

The hospital corridor bustled with activity—shifter children getting routine checkups, a gnome with an arm in a cast, witches delivering healing potions. Several faces brightened at the sight of her, calling greetings or waving. Molly returned each acknowledgment, marveling at how her brief hospital stay had somehow elevated her visibility in the town.

“Everybody knows,” she murmured as they stepped into the elevator.

“Knows what?” Warrick asked.

“About us. About you claiming me at the ball before everything went sideways.” She studied his expression, searching for any hint of discomfort at this public recognition.

The elevator doors closed, and Warrick used the moment of privacy to draw her against him, his large hands spanning her waist. “Good.”

The single word, delivered with unapologetic possessiveness, sent a delicious shiver racing down her spine. Three weeks ago, such a blatant claim might have triggered her independence alarm. Now, it simply felt right—the acknowledgment of a bond that had formed against all odds.

“No regrets about everyone knowing?” she whispered, tipping her face up to his.

His answer came not in words but in the press of his lips against hers—gentle yet thorough, mindful of her recent injury yet unwilling to hold back his affection. One hand cradled the back of her head, careful to avoid the tender spot where the beam had struck. The other splayed across her lower back, drawing her firmly against him.

David cleared his throat again as the elevator chimed their arrival at the ground floor. “If you two could save the reunion for somewhere I’m not trapped in a small box with you, that would be great.”

SIXTY-SEVEN

Warrick broke the kiss but kept his arm around Molly as they exited. The protective gesture spoke volumes—after nearly losing her at the ball, he seemed unwilling to allow even minimal distance between them.

The hospital’s automatic doors whooshed open, releasing them into the crisp autumn air. Molly inhaled deeply, savoring the mingled scents of fallen leaves, distant woodsmoke, and Warrick’s distinctive sandalwood-and-forest cologne.

“Freedom,” she sighed, tipping her face to the sun.

Warrick’s car waited at the curb—sleek, dark, and undeniably expensive, like everything he owned. He opened the passenger door, his hand lingering on her waist as she slid into the buttery leather seat.

“Thanks for the help,” he told David, clapping a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Just glad to see her upright.” David’s usual joking demeanor softened. “Take care of our baker witch, Chief.”

“Always.”

As David departed, Warrick circled to the driver’s side. Molly watched his fluid movements through the windshield, still marveling that this powerful, graceful being had chosen her. His tiger heritage revealed itself in the smallest details—the predatory awareness of his surroundings, the economical grace of his stride, the intensity of his focus when it landed on her.

He slid behind the wheel, immediately reaching for her hand. The gesture came so naturally now, when weeks ago it would have seemed impossible from the stoic fire chief.

“You’re staring,” he noted, starting the engine.

“Just admiring the view.” She squeezed his fingers. “Is that allowed?”

“Encouraged, even.” He pulled away from the hospital, navigating Whispering Pines’s winding streets with the ease of someone who had quickly memorized every inch of his territory.

Molly noticed they weren’t heading toward her apartment above the bakery. Instead, Warrick turned onto Maple Grove Lane—the exclusive neighborhood where his family estate stood among centuries-old trees.

The question formed on her lips, but something in his expression—a hint of vulnerability beneath the confidence—made her wait.

“I thought,” he began, his deep voice uncharacteristically hesitant, “that you might consider staying with me. Not just for recovery, but...permanently.”

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