Page 65 of Summertime Hexy
DEREK
The first thing I feel is pain.
Deep, bone-deep. Like something cracked open and I wasn’t sewn back up right. It burns at the edges of my ribs, curls under my shoulder, coils like smoke in my lungs.
Good.
Means I’m alive.
The second thing I feel is her.
Hazel.
Her scent hits me like a memory—wild herbs, smudged ink, vanilla lip balm, and something always just a little bit scorched. She’s close. Closer than breath.
I force my eyes open.
The Grove glows with dawn light, soft and golden. Everything’s wet with dew. The mist clings low to the earth like it’s afraid to rise. The trees hold their limbs like old gods.
And Hazel?
She’s slumped in a wooden chair beside me—someone dragged it here, probably Milo or Thorn—head lolled against the back, knees tucked under her chin, one hand still wrapped around mine.
Fast asleep.
She looks wrecked.
Hair in knots. Dirt on her cheek. Lips slightly parted, like she passed out mid-threat and forgot to follow through.
I watch her breathe.
Slow. Soft. Uneven.
Like she fought something bigger than herself and barely lived to tell the tale.
Which she did.
And I didn’t help.
Not really.
I took the hit, yeah. Classic vampire theatrics.
Butsheis the one who faced the veil. Who rewrote a spell out of panic and instinct and pulled an entire forest back from the brink using magic no one else could wield without tearing themselves apart.
Hazel Blackmoore is chaos incarnate.
And she stayed.
Even when it would’ve been easier to run.
Her fingers twitch around mine.
She mumbles something under her breath.
“Don’t… hex my heart…”
I choke on a laugh.
