Page 37 of Purring for Her Lion
Something in me softens at these observations, then immediately hardens again when I catch Gabe still watching her.
“You didn’t tell me you were going into town,” I say, and immediately regret how accusatory it sounds.
“I didn’t think I needed a chaperone to buy nails,” she snaps back, fire flashing in her eyes.
She’s right. She doesn’t. But that doesn’t stop the irrational need to make sure she gets the correct supplies, to prevent her from struggling with heavy items, to keep other males from circling while she’s vulnerable and alone.
So I do what any reasonable, definitely-not-obsessed neighbor would do. I take over completely.
I take the fencing Gabe picked, drop it back on the shelf like the inferior product it is, and grab the heavy-gauge, properly reinforced wire from the top shelf. It goes into her cart without discussion.
Then I start working through the mental list I’ve been compiling of everything her homestead needs. The right shovel—ergonomic handle, the kind that won’t give her blisters after an hour of digging. Proper feed for both chickens and a growing dragon. Nails that won’t bend when she inevitably hits them at the wrong angle. Wire cutters that fit her smaller hands. Fireproof sealant for the coop interior, because Nugget has developed the charming habit of practicing his flame bursts near the chicken run.
I move through the store with efficiency, selecting each item with precision, ignoring her confused stare and Gabe’s retreat. The fox-man makes a strategic withdrawal after a few minutes, giving Liana a casual “catch you later” that makes my tail lash against my leg.
We check out in silence, the cashier wisely refraining from small talk as she rings up the purchases. When the total appears, Liana winces. Before she can reach for her wallet, I slide my card across the counter.
“I can pay for my own supplies,” she protests, that stubborn pride flaring in her eyes.
“We’re building on your property. You provide food. I provide materials.” The arrangement makes perfect sense to me. Balanced. Practical. Absolutely not an excuse to provide for her in ways she’ll accept.
She doesn’t argue further, just watches as I load everything into her truck, securing it with bungee cords. When I finish, I hold out my hand for her keys.
“I can drive,” she says, a thread of defiance in her voice.
“Fine.” I walk around to the passenger side, folding myself into her too-small cab, my knees nearly touching the dashboard.
She gets in, inserts the key, then just sits there, hands on the wheel, not starting the engine. I can feel her gathering her thoughts, preparing for a conversation I’m not sure I want to have.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” she finally says, turning the key.
I stare straight ahead as the engine rumbles to life. “I don’t like other people giving you bad advice,” I mutter. “Or hovering.”
“He was being helpful,” she counters, pulling onto the main road.
I make a sound low in my throat that isn’t quite a growl but definitely contains growl-adjacent elements. “He was wasting your time.”
We drive in silence for a moment, the tension between us growing thicker with each passing mile. I can smell her confusion, her annoyance, and something else—something warm and sweet that makes my chest tighten.
“You know you can’t just growl your way through every interaction, right?” she finally says, her knuckles white on the steering wheel.
I don’t hesitate. “I can if it works.”
The corner of her mouth twitches, almost a smile before she suppresses it. She’s trying to stay annoyed with me, but something in her is responding to my ridiculous possessiveness, and we both know it.
“Roarke,” she says, and the sound of my name in her mouth sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine, “you can’t keep acting like I’m yours.”
I look at her then, really look at her, allowing myself to see past the flour smudges and the messy hair to the woman beneath. The woman who bakes bread specifically for me. Who reorganized her kitchen to accommodate my height. Who texts me pictures of her latest creations with question marks, seeking my approval.
The woman who, in every way that matters, has been acting like she is mine for weeks.
“Then stop acting like you are,” I say, the words coming out with more raw honesty than I intended.
She inhales sharply, her eyes widening, but doesn’t respond. We finish the drive in silence, the words hanging between us, too significant to dismiss, too dangerous to examine closely.
When we arrive at her homestead, I unload the supplies methodically, arranging everything for efficient use. She stands on her porch, watching me work, her expression unreadable.
“And for the record,” I say finally, stacking the last of the lumber against the shed, “I’m not territorial about your cart.”
