Page 35 of Purring for Her Lion
No chickens squawking. No Chestnut’s mischievous chirping. No Liana’s voice carrying across the property line, either singing to her sourdough starter or cursing at a stubborn jar lid.
Nothing.
Just silence, and silence from Liana’s property never means anything good.
I set down the jar and glance at the clinic window. Her house sits there, innocently still, windows open to catch the spring breeze. No movement. No chaos. No Liana.
This is concerning.
Not that I need to know her whereabouts at all times. I don’t. Obviously.
That would be obsessive and inappropriate and exactly what I’ve been doing for the past three weeks.
But it’s Tuesday. Tuesdays are bread days. She always bakes on Tuesdays, filling her kitchen with scents that drift across our property line, distracting me from inventory counts and patient charts. It’s become a rhythm I depend on without admitting I depend on it.
I check the time. 10:47 AM. By now, I should be smelling sourdough or ube or that cinnamon-sugar concoction she made last week that had me inventing reasons to stop by.
Instead, nothing. Just spring air and distant bird calls.
Fine. A quick check won’t hurt. Professional courtesy. Neighborly concern. Absolutely nothing to do with the knot forming in my chest.
I step outside, scanning her property with practiced efficiency. The chicken coop—our latest reinforcement project—stands secure, no signs of distress from the flock inside. Good. One potential disaster eliminated.
Which leaves Liana herself unaccounted for.
I follow her scent trail, not even pretending I’m doing anything else. Her scent is distinctive—warm bread and cinnamon with undertones of citrus from that lotion she uses. It leads down her porch steps, across the yard, and to the gravel driveway where her truck usually sits.
The truck is gone.
She left. Without telling me.
I pull out my phone, checking for missed messages. Nothing. No “Roarke, I’m heading into town” or “Don’t worry if you don’t hear me yelling at chickens for a few hours” or even one of those strings of random emojis she sends that I pretend to find annoying.
I absolutely do not feel a twist of irrational betrayal. That would be ridiculous.
She’s an independent adult who doesn’t need to report her movements to me. I am not her keeper or her mate or anything but her neighbor who happens to spend most of his free time rebuilding her homestead piece by piece.
Still, I call her.
Straight to voicemail. Of course.
“It’s me,” I growl after the beep. “Where are you?”
I hang up, immediately regretting the tone. Too demanding. Too possessive. Too revealing of the knot in my chest that tightens with each minute she’s unaccounted for.
I pace the boundary between our properties, my tail lashing behind me. This is pathetic. I do not need to know where one small human woman has gone for a few hours.
Except I do. Because what if she’s in trouble? What if she’s trapped under heavy furniture or tangled in chicken wire or being talked at by that insufferable Mrs. Henderson and her opinions about proper chimera grooming?
I sniff the air again, catching fragments of her scent trail. Flour, as always. Anxiety—which makes my hackles rise. And something else...hardware store smell. Metal. Paint. Sawdust.
She went to the hardware store.
Without me.
For supplies I could have gotten her. For a project I would have helped with. Without asking.
I am not bothered by this. Not at all. I’m simply concerned she’ll buy the wrong gauge of wire or inferior wood screws or that cheap sealant that peels in the first rain.
