Page 30 of Purring for Her Lion
When I secure the final latch—one that not even Chestnut, the obvious mastermind of the bunch, could manipulate—Liana lets out a small cheer beside me, bouncing slightly on her toes. Her joy is disproportionate to the task completed, and yet, I find myself fighting a smile.
“This is amazing,” she says, running her hand along the reinforced wire. “It’s like a chicken fortress. Fort Clucks-a-Lot.”
I should be annoyed by the ridiculous name. Instead, I feel my ear twitch with amusement.
The chicken coop is just the beginning. There’s the entire property to sort out, security measures to implement, proper fencing for the future goats she doesn’t yet know she needs, and of course, the dragon egg incubation setup. Logically, I should beoverwhelmed by the scope of work ahead. Instead, I’m mentally cataloging materials, calculating time requirements, and planning efficient execution while she talks about painting the coop “a cheerful yellow, to match the chickens’ personalities.”
Her food, though. That’s the real problem.
If I hadn’t already known Liana was mine, I’d have claimed her instantly the moment the first spoonful of her adobo touched my tongue.
There’s more magic in this food than the whole of Crystalline Springs.
The explosion of flavors—tangy, savory, perfectly balanced—nearly makes me groan out loud. I manage to contain it to a slight rumble in my chest, but her answering smile tells me she heard it anyway.
This is dangerous territory. Far more dangerous than drills or combat training. I am being domesticated by a human woman who can’t even keep her chickens contained, and the worst part is, I crave it.
Food has always been fuel, nothing more. I’ve eaten military rations for years. I’ve survived on bland, protein-rich supplements designed for Rodinian metabolism.
But Liana’s cooking…
The rich, complex flavors of her Filipino dishes hit my system like a drug. The perfect balance of spicy, savory, sweet, and sour elements activate parts of my brain I didn’t know existed.
Over the next few days, I find myself thinking about her adobo during patient examinations. Remembering the way the tender chicken fell apart with just the barest pressure from my fork. Thevinegar-soy marinade perfectly complemented by bay leaves and peppercorns.
It becomes embarrassingly clear by the end of the first week that I will restructure my entire schedule around her meals.
“You don’t have to come over every day,” she tells me on the third evening, even as she’s filling a plate with pancit that smells like it could bring the dead back to life. “I’m sure you have better things to do.”
I don’t. That’s the truth. Nothing is better than spending time with her. Hell, being in proximity to her.
“The dragon egg needs monitoring,” I say instead, which isn’t technically a lie. The egg does need monitoring. Just not daily in-person visits when we have the remote alert system set up.
She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue, just hands me a plate heaped with noodles and vegetables and chunks of protein that make my mouth water before I’ve even taken a bite.
We fall into a rhythm that feels dangerously close to domesticity. I close the clinic at four, drive directly to her homestead, and spend the evening working on whatever project is next on my meticulously organized list.
Currently, it’s the goat pen. She follows me around, asking questions, handing me tools before I even realize I need them, chattering about her day, her chickens, her latest baking experiment.
“I don’t have goats,” she reminds me for the fifth time as I sink a fence post into the ground.
“Yet,” I respond, tamping down the soil around the post with perhaps more force than necessary. “You said you wanted them. This will ensure that you will one day.”
By the time darkness falls each evening, we’ve made measurable progress, and she insists on feeding me dinner. We eat on her porch when the weather allows, or at her small kitchen table when it doesn’t.
Then we check on the dragon egg together, monitoring its temperature, analyzing the subtle changes in its shell pattern, discussing what will happen when it hatches.
And every night, without fail, she presses containers of leftovers into my hands as I leave.
“I always make too much,” she says. “I only know how to make family-sized portions.”
I accept the containers without argument, and keeping to myself that she has considered me family, in a roundabout way. I, of course, don’t need her food. My refrigerator at home is fully stocked with the standing order I have with the local butcher, and I am completely capable of taking care of myself.
I take her food because refusing her feels impossible. Because the thought of her cooking for someone else, anyone else, makes my claws extend involuntarily.
The first weekend, we go into town together. My truck, her list—pages long and organized by store. The Mack’s Snack and Pack for pantry staples. The Harmony Market to deliver her eggs to Ogram and buy some fresh produce. The hardware store for tools she’ll need to maintain what we’re building.
“I can handle this on my own,” she insists as I load sixty pounds of chicken feed into the truck bed like it weighs nothing.
