Page 7 of Purring for Her Lion
I check the clock. Just past one. The Lion’s Paw Veterinary Clinic is open until six, according to the brochure in my welcome basket. Plenty of time to deliver these while they’re still warm.
Also plenty of time to talk myself out of it.
“No,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “No chickening out. That’s what got you into this mess.”
I look down at myself. Clean jeans. Cute floral top. Hair in a neat ponytail. Mascara, which is basically formal wear for the country.
Keys in hand, I hesitate. The clinic is a ten-minute walk. Driving is lazy, but walking means ten minutes to overthink.
“This is ridiculous.” I grab the basket and head for the door. “I’ve lived alone in big cities. I can deliver bread to one broody veterinarian.”
The afternoon sun is warm on my face as I walk down the country road. Dust kicks up with every step. Birds chirp. The breeze is gentle, the leaves rustling. Everything is so aggressively picturesque I could scream. This is what I wanted when I left my high-stress job, but sometimes the quiet is mocking.
Look at this perfect setting, Liana. Too bad you’re still a mess.
I clutch the basket tighter, feeling the bread’s warmth through the cloth. The scent of ube rises, soothing. This, at least, I can do.
The Lion’s Paw comes into view. Two stories of honey-colored wood, big windows, a wraparound porch. A hand-carved sign with a pawprint. It looks more like a cozy home than a clinic.
But I remember who’s inside.
Deep breath. Straighten up. Walk up the creaking steps. Before I can second-guess, I push open the door. The bell tinkles softly.
First thing I notice: it’s ridiculously cozy. Like a living room, not a clinic. Big, soft chairs in warm earth tones. Ambient lighting. The scent of cedar and herbs, clean antiseptic underneath. Watercolor paintings of wildlife on the walls. A giant aquarium bubbling with bright fish.
The front desk is empty. A small bell sits beside a handwritten “Ring for Service” sign. But before I can touch it, a deep, rumbling voice rolls out from the back.
“Easy now. Almost done.”
The voice shivers straight down my spine. I recognize it. Deeper, softer now. Gentle.
Curious, I follow the sound down a short hall lined with closed doors. One room is open, light spilling out.
“There we go. Good girl.”
I peek inside.
Oh no.
He’s good with animals. This is bad.
Roarke kneels beside a chimera, one hand inspecting bandages on its front leg. His back is to me. His mane-like hair is tied in a low bun, tawny fur visible at his nape. Even crouched, he looks huge.
The chimera—a lion-goat mix with small draconic wings folded tight against its sides—rumbles low in its chest. Roarke responds with a deep, soothing sound, almost a purr, stroking the creature’s mane.
“There. Not so bad, is it?”
The chimera chuffs, eyes half-lidded, leaning into his touch.
I am not prepared for this.
One: Roarke is massive. I already knew, but seeing him beside a two-hundred-pound magical beast and still looking like the biggest thing in the room is something else.
Two: His hands are huge. The way they move, careful and precise and gentle, is almost hypnotic.
Three: His voice. When it goes soft and rumbly, affectionate?—
Help.
