Page 65 of Hex and the Kitty (Whispering Pines #9)

SIXTY-FIVE

W arrick looked around at these women—different ages, different backgrounds, different types of magic—united by their love for the unconscious witch who’d captured his heart. They’d rushed to the hospital without hesitation, bringing their collective power to bear against injuries that had left modern medicine concerned.

For Molly. For him. Without expecting anything in return.

“She’ll need to stay overnight for observation,” Luna declared, beginning to pack her supplies. “I’ll return in the morning with medicinals to restore her energy and ease any residual discomfort.”

“I’m staying with her,” Warrick stated, not a question but a fact.

None of the witches looked surprised. “Of course, you are,” Celeste said as if anything else would be incomprehensible. “Kade’s bringing you an overnight bag. Toothbrush, change of clothes, the essentials.”

Warrick blinked. “How did he know I’d?—“

“Because it’s what he would do,” Celeste explained simply with a knowing smile. “What any of our mates would do. Lark wouldn’t leave Sera’s side when she found out about the triplets. And Reed practically moved into the clinic when Ellie twisted her ankle last month.”

Mates . The word resonated through him, settling into place like a key finding its lock. These women understood—accepted without question—that Molly was his mate, his responsibility, his heart.

“We should go,” Fia suggested, glancing at her watch. “Those nurses won’t stay away much longer, and we shouldn’t all be here when Molly wakes. Too overwhelming.”

The witches gathered their supplies, each pausing to touch Molly’s hand or smooth her hair before heading toward the door. Mari lingered longest, brushing a kiss against her sister’s forehead.

“Call me the moment she wakes,” she instructed Warrick. “And let her know we’ll be bringing breakfast tomorrow. Nothing from the hospital cafeteria for my sister.”

“I will,” he promised. “And...thank you. All of you.”

“That’s what friends do in Whispering Pines,” Briar said simply.

As the door closed behind them, Warrick remained standing beside Molly’s bed, her hand clasped in his. The quiet that fell felt different now—expectant rather than heavy with dread.

Friends. Community. Support without question or condition.

Warrick had wandered for centuries, observing human connections but rarely forming his own. His long lifespan made attachments complicated. Painful, eventually. Better to remain detached, to fulfill his responsibilities without entangling his heart.

Until Molly. Until Whispering Pines.

A single town with its cobblestone streets and small shops had somehow accomplished what three hundred years of existence hadn’t – somewhere to belong. People who understood him—his nature, his responsibilities, his protective instincts. People who didn’t merely tolerate his presence but actively included him in their circle.

This is home , he realized with startling clarity. Not the physical buildings or geography, but this—these connections, these people, this woman.

Movement drew his attention back to the bed. Molly’s eyelids fluttered, her fingers twitching within his grasp.

“Molly?” he whispered, hope clenching his chest.

Her eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the light. Those beautiful green eyes, clear now and free from pain, focused on his face. Recognition dawned, followed by relief, followed by—impossibly, wonderfully—a smile that transformed her entire face.

“Warrick,” she murmured, her voice slightly hoarse but unmistakably hers. “You’re here.”

“Always,” he promised, bringing her hand to his cheek. “Always and forever.”

Her smile widened. “Forever is a long time for a tiger-shifter.”

“Not nearly long enough,” he countered, “when it’s with you.”

Tears welled in her eyes, but these were different from the ones at the ball—no confusion or pain shadowed them. Only joy remained, pure and unfiltered.

“The others?” she asked.

“Just left. They healed you.” Warrick’s voice caught. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Nine witches working in perfect harmony.”

“Sounds like quite a show.” Her thumb caressed his cheekbone. “Sorry I missed it.”

A laugh escaped him—half disbelief, half wonder. “You were unconscious from a serious head injury, and you’re apologizing for missing the magical spectacle?”

“Well, when you put it like that...” Her smile turned impish, so quintessentially Molly that his heart stuttered.

The weight that had crushed his chest since seeing her crumpled on the community center floor finally lifted. Warrick leaned down, pressing his forehead gently against hers, breathing in her scent, her presence, her life.

“I love you,” he whispered against her skin. “When I saw you hurt, I thought?—“

“Shh.” She silenced him with a finger against his lips. “I’m right here. Not going anywhere.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” She shifted slightly, making room beside her on the narrow hospital bed. “Hold me?”

Carefully, mindful of the IV line still attached to her arm, Warrick eased onto the mattress. Molly immediately curled against him, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder as if designed to fit precisely there. Her warmth seeped into him, chasing away the last vestiges of cold dread.

“Your arm,” she murmured, noticing the knife wound. “Dark magic.”

“Luna gave me something for it. It can wait.”

Molly made a small sound of disagreement. “Let me see.”

Before he could protest, she placed her palm over the wound. A soft glow emanated from her fingers—not the brilliant white of the healing circle, but a gentler, rose-gold radiance that carried her unique magical signature.

Warmth spread from the point of contact, followed by a tingling sensation as the dark magic was neutralized and expelled. The wound didn’t close completely—even witch magic had its limits—but the angry red edges faded to pink, and the throbbing pain subsided to a dull ache.

“You shouldn’t be using magic yet,” he scolded gently, though gratitude colored his voice.

“Just a little one,” she replied, settling back against him. “Worth it.”

Warrick tightened his arm around her, careful not to disturb her injuries. Outside the window, dawn approached, painting the sky in delicate pinks and lavenders. A new day for Whispering Pines. A new beginning for them.

“Get some rest,” he murmured into her hair. “I’ll be right here when you wake.”

Her breathing deepened as she drifted toward sleep, safe and content in his embrace. Warrick remained awake, keeping watch as the first rays of sunlight filtered through the blinds.

Three hundred years of existence had taught him many things: languages long forgotten, skills grown obsolete, histories rewritten by the victors. But it had never taught him this—the profound peace of holding your heart in your arms, knowing your future had found its home.

That lesson had required a witch with fiery curls and a talent for magical baking. It had required a town of cobblestone streets and supernatural acceptance. It had required friends who showed up without being asked, who gave without expecting anything in return.

It had required Molly. It had required Whispering Pines.

And finally, after centuries of wandering, Warrick Shaw had found exactly where he belonged.