14. Hux
FOURTEEN
HUX
They walked back along the harbor, the pier lights casting long reflections across the water. The town was quiet at this hour—sleeping, peaceful, unaware of the ancient threat stirring beneath its surface.
Lunaria’s shoulder brushed his as they walked. Neither of them moved apart.
“Thinking about leaving?”
“Constantly.” Her smile was rueful. “But the gardens aren’t done. The mystery isn’t solved. And there’s this insufferable mayor who feeds me pancakes at midnight.”
They turned onto the path that led to her cottage. The gardens loomed beyond, moonflowers glowing softly in the darkness. The Warning Bells had finally gone quiet—the first time in days.
At her door, they stopped. The moment stretched, heavy with things neither of them was saying.
“Thank you.” Her voice was soft. “For tonight. For listening. For—” She gestured vaguely. “For making me feel like staying somewhere might be worth the risk.”
“Thank you for showing me.” He stepped closer. Couldn’t help it. The beast was pushing forward, demanding closeness, and for once, he didn’t fight it. “Even if darkness is consuming my potential, at least I know it’s not my fault. That counts for something.”
“It counts for a lot.” She looked up at him, her dark eyes reflecting starlight. “Mayor Clipboard.”
“Garden Witch.”
Neither of them moved. Her lips were close. Her breath was warm. The beast was making a sound he didn’t recognize—not a growl but softness, near contentment.
She rose on her toes and pressed her lips to his cheek.
Brief. Warm. World-altering.
Her mouth was soft against his skin, and the contact lasted barely a heartbeat, but it sent electricity racing down his spine.
The beast surged forward with a sound of pure want, and every nerve in his body lit up with the need to turn his head, to catch her lips with his, to kiss her properly and thoroughly and—
She stepped back. Her cheeks were flushed. Her smile was somewhere between shy and triumphant.
“Thanks for the pancakes.”
Then she slipped inside and closed the door.
Hux stood frozen on her porch. The night air was cool against his heated skin. The stars wheeled overhead, indifferent to the chaos happening inside him.
His lion was purring.
Purring.
He touched his cheek where her lips had been. The skin was still warm.
You’re the first person in ten years who’s made me want to stay somewhere long enough to solve a mystery.
She’d said that. About him. About insufferable, clipboard-wielding, too-many-forms him.
Hux stood on her porch for another full minute, the purring vibrating through his bones, his heart doing things it had never done before.
Hope.
He hadn’t felt it in years. Maybe never—the curse had been consuming his potential since before he was born, after all. Maybe hope was one of the things it had devoured.
But the air felt different. Something had changed in the gardens tonight, among the Fate Lilies, when she’d taken his hands and told him he wasn’t defective.
The curse was still there. The void-dweller was still feeding. His potential was still being consumed by something ancient and hungry and terrible.
But for the first time, he wasn’t facing it alone.
Hux finally made himself walk back down the path, back through the quiet streets of Haven Shores, back to the house where generations of Holts had lived and loved inadequately and died without ever understanding why.
His lion purred the whole way home.