Page 25 of Purring for Her Lion
Maybe it did.
I double-check the incubator’s harness, the temperature display. The egg glows, healthy and stable. At least something is.
“Is it okay? Readings look good? Should we adjust humidity?” Liana’s at my shoulder, careful not to touch me, peering at the egg. “I read once that eggs need specific humidity, though that was chickens, not dragons, but maybe it’s the same? Or totally different? I have no idea what I’m talking about.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “Settings are optimal.”
She nods too fast, tucks her hair behind her ear. “Good. Great. Excellent egg situation.”
I just watch her. Her nervousness is almost a scent, electric and sweet, like static and rising bread. She’s overthinking, replaying the morning on a loop. Humans do that—they turn simple things into complicated messes, inventing scenarios to stress over. It’s exhausting to watch.
We check out at the inn. The copper-haired innkeeper beams at us. “I trust you found the Moonstone Suite comfortable?” Her eyes twinkle.
“Very,” I say.
Liana makes a strangled noise.
The innkeeper’s smile widens. “Magical surge nights often bring people closer together. The energy reveals truths.”
Wonderful. Mystical innkeeper wisdom.
“Bill,” I say, ignoring her commentary.
She hands me the charges. As I pay, I notice Liana at a crystal trinket display, fingers hovering, curious as always, never able to resist a new mystery.
“Your mate has good instincts,” the innkeeper murmurs. “Those are protection amulets. Useful for someone caring for a dragon egg.”
“She’s not my mate,” I say automatically. But the words taste wrong. My chest tightens with the lie.
The innkeeper just smiles. “If you say so, dear.”
I don’t answer. I move to Liana. “Time to go,” I tell her, placing my hand on her lower back to guide her out.
She doesn’t flinch. Instead, she leans into my touch. A rumbling purr rises in my chest—I stifle it with a cough.
We make our way to the truck in silence. Liana steals glances at the magical town, trying to memorize every detail. Her face is open, full of wonder, even with the embarrassment still fresh.
That’s what surprises me about her. Her capacity for joy, even in awkwardness.
She settles in the passenger seat, checking on the egg in the back. “I still can’t believe this is happening. A dragon egg. A real dragon egg.”
“You’ll believe it when it hatches,” I say, steering through the winding streets. “They’re loud.”
“Oh god.” Her eyes widen. “What do baby dragons eat? Do they breathe fire right away? Will it imprint on me? Or you? Or both? Will it think Chestnut is its mother? What if it eats Chestnut??”
“One problem at a time,” I cut her off. Her rambling is familiar now. Almost comforting.
The magical town falls behind us, normal countryside rolling by. I let myself think about last night. Something changed. Not obvious, not dramatic. But fundamental.
She fits against me. Not just physically, though her body molds to mine perfectly. But in a deeper way. Her chaos fills my stillness. Her questions fill a silence I didn’t know was empty.
I glance at her. She’s careful not to touch me, but last night, in sleep, she crossed the space between us. Clung to me like I was essential.
Her unconscious self trusts me. Seeks my warmth, my protection.
Her waking self isn’t there yet. Still sees me as the intimidating neighbor, the stoic vet, the reluctant dragon egg co-parent.
I can wait. Patience isn’t my strength, but for her, I’ll make an exception.
