Page 19 of Purring for Her Lion
“I’ll take the floor,” he says, finally, voice flat.
I look at him, then the floor, then back. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re seven feet tall. You’d be miserable.”
“I’ve slept in worse.”
“That’s not the point. There’s a perfectly good, very large bed right there.” I gesture at it with a hopefully nonchalant flick of my wrist. “We’re adults. We can share a bed without it being weird.”
It’s already weird. The air feels charged, and not just from the storm.
Roarke holds my gaze, golden eyes unreadable. “Fine,” he says at last. “We’ll share.”
Dinner is awkward, but the food is excellent, and the spectacle of magical beings enjoying a meal is a distraction. Afterward, we return to our room. The storm’s still raging, shadows and light moving across the moonstone walls.
Getting ready for bed is a careful, silent dance. I change in the bathroom, grateful I’d grabbed my everything tote before leaving my house. I had my basic return-to-office necessities here, complete with my gym gear that I’d never gotten around to unpacking.
When I come out—in shorts and an oversized t-shirt—Roarke is already in bed, reclining on top of the covers as he leafs through a pamphlet, as far to the edge as possible.
I slide between the sheets on the other side, a chasm of space between us. “Goodnight,” I say, my voice thin.
“Goodnight,” he rumbles, reaching to turn off the lamp.
Darkness falls, broken only by flashes of magical lightning and the ghostly glow of moonstone. I lie rigid, every nerve aware of Roarke beside me. I can feel the heat of his body, even with the distance. His breathing is steady, but I know he’s awake. So am I.
Eventually, exhaustion wins. The storm’s rumble, the strange comfort of Roarke’s presence, and the soft light of the moonstone walls pull me under. I sleep.
CHAPTER 6
ROARKE
I don’t sleep.
Not with her lying so close, her scent thick in the air, sweet bread and that peculiar human warmth that reminds me of sunlight on fur. The magical storm outside rages, casting wild shadows across the ceiling. I stare upward, counting heartbeats. Hers are steady, peaceful. Mine are not. My tail flicks against the mattress, agitated. This is what I get for playing hero to a human with no sense of boundaries and a dragon egg.
The inn’s moonstone crystals pulse with faint light, responding to the magical surge outside. I focus on them, cataloging their patterns, anything to keep my mind from the warm body beside me. Twenty-three crystals in my line of sight. Fourteen pulsing in time with the thunder. Nine with their own erratic rhythm.
A jagged flash of lightning slices through the room, and I glance over. Liana is curled on her side, back to me, hair a dark spill across the pillow. The buffer zone she staked out between us when we first lay down is still there. For now.
I should be planning. The egg. Incubation protocols. The inevitable disaster of a dragon hatchling in her chaos-ridden home. Instead, I’m hyperaware of every sound she makes, every shift beneath the covers. Each exhale. Each tiny movement.
Pathetic. I’ve led battalions into enemy fire. I’ve survived three galactic campaigns. I’ve stitched my own wounds without anesthetic.
And here I am, undone by a small human woman in an oversized t-shirt.
The storm peaks, thunder shaking the windows. Liana stirs, making a small, distressed sound. She shifts, inching closer to the center of the bed.
Toward me.
I go completely still, barely breathing. It’s nothing. People move in their sleep. Biology. Seeking warmth.
Another flash of magical lightning, this one purple, makes her skin glow. Goosebumps on her arm. The temperature’s dropped with the storm.
She’s cold.
I should pull the blanket up, be decent, logical. But moving might wake her, and then we’d have to acknowledge the reality of sharing a bed. No thank you.
So I do nothing.
Until she moves again.
