Page 13 of Purring for Her Lion
I should argue. I should explain all the reasons this is a terrible idea. I should call the Dragon Conservation Authority.
Instead, I nod, once, and follow her out the door.
I shouldn’t be this invested.
I shouldn’t already be planning how to incubate the egg, where it will be safest, what to do when it hatches.
But I am.
And I don’t know why.
Maybe it’s professional curiosity. Dragons are fascinating, and the chance to study one from hatching is rare.
Maybe it’s concern for the egg, abandoned or hidden for reasons I can’t yet determine.
Or maybe—it’s the way Liana’s eyes lit up with wonder, not fear, when I told her what she’d found. The way she accepted the responsibility without question. The way she said “we” instead of “I,” as if it’s already decided we’re in this together.
“My truck’s just out back,” I tell her, leading the way. “Faster than walking.”
“Truck?” She hustles to keep up. “I kind of pictured you riding a giant lion through the countryside.”
I give her a flat look. “That would be impractical.”
“So is having a truck with a tail, but I bet you make it work,” she shoots back, grinning.
I don’t dignify that with a response, but my tail flicks with amusement.
Outside, she stops, grabbing my arm. Her hand barely wraps halfway around my forearm, but the contact jolts me.
“Wait.” Her face is serious. “What if, what if it’s not abandoned? What if its mother comes looking for it?”
A valid concern. One I’ve already considered.
“Dragons don’t abandon eggs by accident,” I say, gently extracting my arm. “If it was placed on your property, there’s a reason. If the mother’s still around, she’s watching from a distance.”
“Watching?” Liana’s eyes dart to the sky. “Like, right now?”
“Possibly.”
“And she won’t, I don’t know, incinerate me for touching her baby?”
“Not if she chose you.”
Liana stops again, forcing me to face her. “Chose me? What does that mean?”
I hesitate. “It’s complicated. We need to examine the egg first. Confirm what we’re dealing with.”
She nods, but I see the questions stacking up behind her eyes.
We climb into my truck, modified for my size and tail. I’m acutely aware of her beside me. Her scent fills the cab: bread, sugar, anxiety, determination. She fidgets with the basket handle, fingers tapping out a nervous rhythm.
“Have you ever hatched a dragon before?” she asks as I start the engine.
“Once,” I admit. “At a conservation center. Years ago.”
“And did it… you know… imprint on you?”
I glance at her, surprised. “No. That’s not how it works with most species.”
