Page 26 of Purring for Her Lion
Because the truth is, I’m already lost. I’m protective of her in a way that goes beyond professional or neighborly concern. I’m attached to her chaos, her optimism, her bread. I’m not letting her go.
“Will the egg be okay in my house?” she asks, breaking the silence. “It’s not magical. What if it needs ambiance?”
“It will be fine,” I say. “Dragons adapt. They’re resilient.”
Like her. Adapting to farm life, to chicken stampedes, to dragon eggs, to sleeping beside a non-human neighbor.
She’s more resilient than she knows.
“If you say so.” She still looks worried. “I just don’t want to mess this up.”
Her tone is raw. I reach over and touch her hand, gentle. “You won’t,” I say, more certain than I mean to be.
She looks at me, startled by the contact, but doesn’t pull away. Our eyes lock. I see trust flicker there, just for a moment.
Then she looks away, cheeks coloring. “Well, with you helping, maybe we have a chance.”
I return my hand to the wheel, but something settles in my chest. A decision.
I’ll be patient. I’ll let her catch up. But I won’t back off. I won’t pretend it didn’t happen.
Because it did. And it matters.
Driving toward her homestead, dragon egg safe between us, I finally admit it:
This peculiar, loud, bread-baking human is mine to protect.
Whether she knows it yet or not.
CHAPTER 9
LIANA
Roarke setsthe incubator on my kitchen table like it’s the crown jewels, the dragon egg inside catching the light, slick and iridescent. My hands twitch with the urge to touch it again.
I remember the way it felt beneath my fingertips, that alien shimmer, and force myself to stay back. One reckless moment was how this all started, me and the lion-man who makes my kitchen look like a playhouse.
He tweaks the controls with those massive hands, careful as if he’s holding a beating heart, and I try not to remember waking up tangled around him this morning, my face pressed into his golden fur. No. Not going there.
“We need a more permanent location.” His voice fills the room, low and absolute. “Kitchen’s too variable. Temperature fluctuations. Foot traffic.”
I nod, like I’m someone who definitely has a plan for a dragon egg and not just a woman barely managing to keep chickens alive. “Right. Stable environment. I was thinking maybe the spare room? It’s quiet, gets morning light, no direct sun, and?—”
A squawk slices through the air. Roarke’s ear flicks. He glances at the window, and I recognize his “the chickens are loose again” face.
“Oh no,” I groan, already heading for the door. “Please tell me that’s not?—”
“Chickens,” he confirms, following me with those deliberate, heavy steps. “Headed toward my property. Again.”
I bolt outside, bare feet pounding the porch and then the cool grass. Sure enough, there’s my flock, parading in single file toward Roarke’s pristine lawn. Chestnut leads, head high, like she’s on a mission from God.
“How?” I demand, hands on my hips. “HOW? We just fixed that coop!”
Roarke stands beside me, watching the march with a resigned amusement. “They found a weakness.”
“They always do,” I mutter, stomping after them. “It’s like they have secret chicken meetings at night. ‘Alright, ladies, Buttercup found a loose board on the east side. We move at dawn.’”
A rumble comes from Roarke. I nearly trip—it’s a laugh. A real, deep, quiet laugh. It rolls through me, warm and unexpected.
