Page 41 of Purring for Her Lion
Seven days ago, he was the size of a football, all awkward wings and oversized head.
Now he’s roughly the dimensions of a young goat, with scales that catch the morning light like polished sapphires and a tail that can knock over a chair when he gets excited. At this rate of growth, he’ll be horse-sized within two months.
The implications of this are not lost on me as I watch him prancing around Liana’s chicken coop, playing some incomprehensible game with Chestnut that involves a lot of chirping, clucking, and what appears to be a mutual grooming ritual that should not be biologically possible.
“They’ve been doing this for hours,” Liana says, appearing beside me with a mug of coffee clutched in both hands. There are dark circles under her eyes, flour dusting her left shoulder, and a streak of what might be ube jam in her hair. She looks exhaustedbut delighted. “Chestnut has officially adopted him. She keeps trying to teach him how to scratch for bugs.”
I grunt noncommittally, watching as the dragon—who could easily swallow Chestnut whole at this point—delicately mimics the chicken’s movements, scratching at the dirt with his front claws, then cocking his head at precisely the same angle.
“Dragons are solitary creatures,” I say, because it’s true. It’s in every text I’ve studied. “They don’t form pack bonds.”
Liana gives me a look that somehow manages to be both tired and smug. “Tell that to Nugget.”
I can’t argue with the evidence before me. Nugget is currently letting Buttercup, the smallest of the hens, perch on his back while he carefully navigates the chicken run. It defies everything I know about dragon behavior. But then, everything about this situation does.
“You need sleep,” I observe, noting the way she sways slightly on her feet. “And Nugget needs more space.”
“I know, I know.” She sighs, rubbing her eyes with one hand. “I was up all night with him. He kept trying to climb into bed with me, but he’s already too big, and then he knocked over my nightstand trying to fit, and then he got upset and set my curtains on fire.” She says this with the casual tone of someone describing a mild inconvenience, not a potential house fire. “I put it out with the extinguisher you made me keep by the bed.”
My claws extend slightly at the thought of her alone with a distressed, fire-breathing creature, but I retract them before she notices. “Good.”
“And yes, I know he needs more space,” she continues, gesturing at her modestly-sized farmhouse. “But I don’t exactly have a dragon wing I can add to the house.”
She doesn’t, but I’ve been sketching plans all week. Extensions, outbuildings, specialized containment areas that can expand as Nugget grows. I’ve mapped it all out in precise detail, calculated materials, timeframes, costs. I haven’t shown her yet because I know how she’ll react—insisting it’s too much, that she can figure something out on her own, that she doesn’t need my help. Stubborn woman.
“He can’t stay inside much longer,” I say instead of mentioning my plans. “Not safely.”
She nods, watching as Nugget successfully scratches up a worm and offers it to Chestnut with surprising gentleness. “I know. But he screams bloody murder if he can’t smell me nearby.”
Don’t I know it. The night I tried to keep him at my clinic was a disaster of epic proportions. He screeched for hours, inconsolable without Liana’s scent. Eventually, I had to wrap him in one of her flour-dusted aprons just to get him to stop making sounds that could probably be heard three towns over.
“We’ll figure something out,” I tell her, surprising myself with the “we.” But it is “we” now, isn’t it? Has been since the moment she found that egg.
She gives me a tired smile that does strange things to my insides. “Thanks. I don’t know what I’d do without your help. Probably be burned to a crisp by now.”
“Probably,” I agree, which makes her laugh despite her exhaustion.
I turn my attention back to the chickens and dragon, processing what I’m seeing against what I know about dragon behavior. Dragons are apex predators. Solitary hunters. Territorial and aggressive, especially when young and establishing boundaries. And yet there’s Nugget, belly-down in the dirt, letting a group of chickens peck affectionately at his scales while he makes a contented rumbling sound that reminds me, disturbingly, of my own purr.
Just another way my certainties have been upended since meeting Liana.
“I have to go to Ogram’s,” she says, finishing her coffee. “I promised to bring samples of the ube jam and of course, all those crates of eggs.”
I eye her critically. “You need sleep more than Ogram needs jam and eggs.”
“Can’t I need sleep and Ogram need jam?” she counters, already moving toward the house. “Besides, tomorrow is Friday, and folks like to buy things for the weekend.”
I follow her inside, where the kitchen looks like a purple bomb has exploded. Every surface is covered with jars of vibrant jam, cooling racks of bread and pastries, and equipment in various states of use. The air smells like warm sugar, yeast, and something floral I can’t quite identify.
“When did you last sleep?” I ask, watching her move between tasks with the unsteady determination of someone running on fumes.
She shrugs, sealing another jar of jam. “I got a few hours last night. I think.”
“Not enough.”
“Nowhere near enough,” she agrees with a wry smile. “But Nugget needs constant attention, and the chickens need care, and the jam won’t make itself, and?—”
“I’ll watch Nugget tonight,” I cut in. “You sleep.”
