Page 18 of Purring for Her Lion
I pull my hand back, chastened. “Right. Sorry.”
He doesn’t let go, guiding me back to the counter where Mortimer has assembled the goods: a dome-shaped incubator,crystal and metal alloy, monitors, blankets woven with shimmering thread, jewel-toned liquids.
“The complete package,” Mortimer says. “Temperature regulators, humidity controls, imprinting aids.”
Imprinting aids? I want to ask, but Roarke is already nodding.
“We’ll take it all,” he says, pulling out a credit card and handing it to the owner.
A distant thunder roll interrupts. Mortimer looks up, face tight.
“Storm’s coming,” they say, ominous. “Magical surge. You should stay in town until it passes.”
I glance outside and my jaw drops. The sky, bright blue moments ago, is now roiling with clouds, pulsing with light in unnatural colors. The wind picks up, making the crystals hum.
“How long?” Roarke asks, tense.
Mortimer purses their lips. “Until morning, at least. Surges don’t pass quickly.”
Roarke glances at me, then the egg, calculating. I can see him weighing the risks.
“Is it dangerous?” I ask, voice small.
“Not dangerous,” Mortimer says. “But unpredictable. Magic acts up during surges. Best to stay put, especially with such precious cargo.” They nod at the egg.
Thunder shakes the shop. Outside, people hurry indoors, locking windows and doors.
“Fine,” Roarke says, jaw set. “We’ll stay.”
Mortimer recommends an inn down the street. “The Crystal Compass, very comfortable, good wards.” They help us pack the supplies. By the time we step outside, the wind is fierce, and lightning flickers overhead in colors that shouldn’t exist.
Roarke’s hand is firm on my back as we hurry to the inn, the other arm cradling the egg and incubator. The inn is three stories, peaked roof, windows gleaming against the storm. Inside, a cozy lobby and a fireplace welcome us, warmth wrapping around me like a blanket.
The innkeeper is a plump woman, hair a wild tumble of actual copper wire, glinting in the lamplight. She glances up from her ledger, eyes bright. “Just in time,” she chirps. “Another minute and I’d have had to activate the full shields.”
“We need a room,” Roarke says, all business. “Two beds. Just for tonight.”
She winces, all apology. “Oh, dear. With the surge, we’re packed. Travelers caught in the storm.” She taps her ledger, thinking. “There’s one left—The Moonstone Suite. Very comfortable, very secure.”
“Two beds?” Roarke pushes.
“One bed,” she admits, lips pinched. “A large one. Plenty of room for both of you.”
Heat blooms across my face. One room. One bed. Me and Roarke.
God.
Roarke’s tail flicks, agitation barely leashed, but another crack of magical thunder outside makes the decision for him.
“We’ll take it,” he grits out.
The innkeeper beams, either oblivious or choosing not to care. “Wonderful! Follow me, please.”
The Moonstone Suite is on the top floor, windows rattling with the force of the storm. Silver and pale blue everywhere, moonstone crystals set into the walls, glowing soft and opalescent. The bed dominates the space. One bed. King-sized, sure, but still only one.
The innkeeper leaves us with a bright reminder about dinner, six to nine, and then it’s just us. Alone. With the bed.
Roarke sets the incubator down on a table by the window, adjusting the controls with quick, practiced hands. I stand in the middle of the room, not looking at the bed, but thinking about it anyway.
