Page 31 of Purring for Her Lion
“I know,” I lie, because we both know she would have struggled to load even half that weight. Her human frame is small, soft in all the places that matter. The thought of her straining under heavy bags makes something protective and primitive rise in my chest.
At the checkout, she tries to pay for everything. Actually steps in front of me, credit card already in hand. “I’ve got this,” she says firmly.
I let her win this round. Partly because the stubborn set of her jaw tells me arguing would be pointless. And also because I’m already planning to pay for the more expensive items at the hardware store.
When she’s not looking, I slip the cashier my card and quietly add a premium bird feed supplement, additional building materials, and a set of high-end garden tools to the order. The cashier, a knowing smile on her face, rings them up separately and hands me the receipt before Liana returns from examining seed packets.
Liana narrows her eyes when she sees the extra bags being loaded.
“Store promotion,” I say smoothly. “Buy one, get one.”
She doesn’t believe me for a second, but she lets it slide, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
By the time we return to her homestead, the truck filled with supplies, I’ve already mentally rearranged my schedule for the next month. Patients in the morning. Liana’s projects inthe afternoon and evening. Weekend supply runs and major construction work.
The dragon egg’s projected hatching date marked in red on my calendar.
I’ve restructured my entire life around her in less than two weeks.
This is standard fated mate behavior. I know this. I’m not an idiot. The compulsive need to provide, protect, ensure her environment is secure and comfortable. The territorial satisfaction I feel seeing my work on her property. The way her scent has become familiar, necessary. The way food tastes better when she’s made it, when we share it.
But acknowledging it would make it real. And making it real would mean admitting that my carefully constructed solitude, my deliberate emotional distance from everyone and everything since the war, has been dismantled by a chaotic human woman who names her chickens and can’t hammer a straight nail.
Besides, Liana needs to come around to this knowledge on her own. Talking about it directly and openly at this point when she’s not ready will just make her retreat or runaway.
And she’s too invested too much of herself to leave Harmony Glen, and I wouldn’t be the mate she needs if I put her in the position to feel like running.
So I don’t acknowledge it.
I just keep showing up. Keep building. Keep accepting the containers of food she presses into my hands each night. Keep planning the next day’s work as I drive home, her leftovers on the seat beside me, her scent still clinging to my fur.
“You don’t have to do all this,” she says one evening, watching me adjust the settings on the dragon egg incubator.
“I know,” I tell her, another lie.
The truth is, I do have to do this. I have to make myself essential to her. Have to integrate myself so thoroughly into her daily life that the thought of me not being there becomes unimaginable. It’s calculated. Strategic. Military precision applied to emotional infiltration.
I’ve faced gunfire with less determination than I feel ensuring her herb garden beds are properly positioned for optimal growth. I’ve planned combat missions with less attention to detail than I give to organizing her pantry.
Because even though she thinks there’s an expiration date to this arrangement, I know in my soul, this is not temporary.
It cannot be.
And so, I’m already planning spring plantings. Already calculating the dimensions for a larger chicken run, anticipating the flock expansion she doesn’t yet know she wants. Already imagining myself here, with her, long after any reasonable excuse has expired.
And so I plot.
The next project will be the herb garden. It’s the logical next step after completing the goat pen. She’ll need fresh herbs for cooking, especially with winter coming. A small indoor setup for the cold months, expandable to outdoor beds in spring.
I can build it this afternoon, get a head start on preparing the soil, selecting the right starter plants.
Decision made, I head to the agricultural supply store two towns over. They have the specialized growing lights I need, proper soil mixtures, drainage systems. The owner raises an eyebrow when I list my requirements.
“Indoor herb garden?” he asks, already pulling items from shelves.
“For winter,” I confirm. “Expandable to outdoor in spring.”
He nods knowingly. “Planning ahead. Smart. What’s your soil composition like?”
