Page 32 of Purring for Her Lion
I describe Liana’s property in precise detail—the drainage patterns, sun exposure, existing flora indicating soil quality. I’ve been cataloguing this information since the first day I stepped onto her land, filing it away for future use.
“You’ll want to adjust the pH here,” the owner suggests, adding soil amendments to my growing pile of supplies. “And consider these heritage seed varieties for spring planting. They’ll do well in your climate zone.”
I find myself selecting seeds for plants that won’t go into the ground for eight months. Tomatoes that won’t fruit until late summer. Pepper varieties that require careful tending through multiple seasons. Perennial herbs that will establish themselves over years, not weeks.
I’m planning a future on her land. A future that extends far beyond the dragon egg hatching, beyond any reasonable excuse to remain in her life.
As I load the supplies into my truck, this realization sits heavy in my chest. What am I doing?
There’s no guarantee she’ll even want me around by spring. Humans are fickle creatures. Changeable. She might grow tired of my presence, my bluntness, my tendency to organize her pantry for maximum efficiency when she’s not looking.
I dismiss the thought as quickly as it forms. No. I’ve already decided. I am making myself indispensable to her. Creating systems and structures she’ll need to maintain. Establishing my presence as necessary, beneficial. By spring, the idea of me not being there to plant these seeds will be unthinkable to her.
It’s manipulative. Calculating. Completely transparent to anyone with half a brain.
But I’m doing it anyway.
On the drive back, I mentally organize the herb garden project. Indoor setup first. Proper lighting, drainage, soil preparation. Show her how to maintain it through winter. Then spring planning. Layout the beds according to sun requirements and companion planting principles. Schedule planting days, establish watering routines.
My thoughts drift to her kitchen. She’ll need proper storage for dried herbs. Glass containers, clearly labeled. A drying rack for fresh-cut stems. Perhaps a small dehydrator for more efficient processing.
I add these items to my mental list, already calculating dimensions, materials needed, optimal placement in her kitchen.
Eight months. I’m planning eight months ahead as if it’s a foregone conclusion that I’ll still be building things on her property, still eating her food, still orbiting her chaotic little life like it’s become the center of my universe.
Which it has.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, claws extending slightly against the leather. I know what this is. I’m not stupid. I can recognize mate behavior in myself as clearly as I can diagnose parturition complications in a pregnant unicorn. The compulsive providing. The territorial planning. The irrational irritation at mediocre café food that isn’t hers.
But acknowledging it would mean confronting it. And confronting it would mean making decisions about it. And I’m not ready for that yet.
For now, I’m content to build her an herb garden. To show her how to tend it through winter. To pretend this is all perfectly normal veterinary neighbor behavior.
And when spring comes?
I’ll be there, seeds in hand, ready to plant whatever she wants. Because I’ve already decided to make myself indispensable to her life.
And that’s that.
CHAPTER 11
LIANA
If I werethe type of woman who had her life together, I wouldn’t have been stuck in Foxer Upper Hardware & Feed, staring at a shelf of metal mesh like it was a philosophical dilemma. I’d be home, not wondering how I ended up lost in a place that smells like dust, livestock, and engine oil, with nothing but a notepad and a bad chicken doodle instead of an actual shopping list. But I’m not organized, and my life is one long stumble through chaos, so here I am: jaw slack, mind blank, and surrounded by fencing options that sound more like late-night infomercial products than actual hardware.
The shelves tower over me, neat rows of silver, gray, and black, each with a garish label screaming for attention. “MaxGrip.” “Predator Stop Pro-Max.” “ClawDefend Ultimate.” Who names these things? I mutter to myself, “Why are there seventeen types of chicken wire? And why do they all sound like they’re overcompensating?”
A low chuckle rumbles behind me. “Because predators are creative and your chickens are not,” the voice says.
I turn, startled. Gabe leans against the nearest shelf, arms folded. He’s a fox-man, all russet fur and sharp, easy confidence, flannel sleeves rolled up over corded forearms. His tail flicks, slow and lazy. He looks me over, not missing a single detail: my flour-dusted jeans, the pencil shoved into my messy bun, the amused confusion plain on my face.
“I just want something that is for sure chicken proof. And could possibly withstand a baby dragon,” I say, gesturing at my notepad like it’s a real list. “Fire happens, and all that.”
Gabe grins, and his teeth are just a little too sharp. “Heard about your dragon-chicken. Word gets around.”
“Safe to say that I don’t know what a baby dragon might need. Or if I should even try to contain it,” I admit, images of bonfires and destruction play in my mind. At least the coop is fireproof, thanks to Roarke’s paranoia.
Gabe steps closer, running his clawed hand over the rolls of fencing until he picks one up and swings the heavy bundle into my cart. His muscles flex. “Welded mesh. Won’t warp. Holds up even if your future dragon decides to get spicy.” His grin broadens as he leans against my cart, close enough that the tips of his fur brush my sleeve.
