Page 39 of Purring for Her Lion
They just...accept it. Accept me.
For the first time in my life, I don’t feel restless. I don’t feel the itch under my skin that used to drive me to scroll through job listings at 2 AM, convinced that the next city, the next position, the next fresh start would finally be the one where I fit.
I seal the last jar of ube jam and line them up on the counter—a regiment of purple soldiers ready for inspection. The color makes me smile.
In New York, I once had a UX director tell me my color choices were “too ethnic” for the client. Here, people wave at me and holler for more of that “that purple stuff that tastes like heaven.”
The pandesal dough has risen, and I begin shaping it into small rounds, rolling each piece in breadcrumbs before placing them on the baking sheet. My hands know this dance by heart. This is where I’m competent. This is where I don’t second-guess every move, every word, every facial expression.
And that’s the real difference, isn’t it? Here, I don’t feel like I’m wearing a mask. I don’t have to carefully monitor my tone to make sure I sound “professional enough” or worry that my enthusiasm about chickens is making people uncomfortable.
I can just be my chaotic, hyperfixating, food-obsessed self.
Hell, Roarke has seen me at my absolute worst—covered in chicken feed, crying over a burned loaf, rambling about dragon egg temperature fluctuations at midnight—and he still shows up.
Every day. With lumber and tools and that intense focus that makes me feel like I’m the only person in the world who matters.
“No,” I say out loud to the empty kitchen. “We are not thinking about Roarke. We are thinking about bread and jam and chicken. Bread and jam and chicken.”
I slide the pandesal into the oven and set the timer. The adobo is simmering nicely, the chicken falling off the bone, the sauce reduced to a glossy coating. Perfect. I’ll portion it out later. Not for anyone specific. Just...portions. For freezing. For emergencies. For definitely not giving to tall, furry veterinarians with territorial tendencies.
I’m wiping down the counters when I hear it—a faint tapping sound from the spare room. I freeze, dish towel in hand, listening. There it is again.Tap-tap-tap. Like tiny knuckles rapping on glass.
The egg.
I drop the towel and rush to the spare room, heart suddenly pounding in my throat. The incubator glows softly in the dim light, the monitoring equipment Roarke installed humming steadily. Inside, the egg is moving. Actually moving. Tiny cracksspider across its iridescent surface, and as I watch, a small section of shell bulges outward.
“Oh my god,” I whisper, frozen in place. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.”
I should call Roarke. I definitely should call Roarke. This is exactly the kind of situation where having a magical veterinarian on speed dial would be useful. But my phone is in the kitchen, and I can’t tear my eyes away from the egg. If I leave, even for a second, I might miss it.
The crack widens, and a tiny, claw-tipped appendage pokes through. It’s dark blue, almost black, with scales that catch the light like tiny sapphires. The claw scratches at the shell, widening the hole, determined and focused.
“You’ve got this,” I find myself saying, moving closer to the incubator. “Come on, little one. You can do it.”
As if hearing me, the creature inside redoubles its efforts. More cracks appear, spreading outward like a roadmap. A larger piece of shell falls away, revealing a glimpse of what looks like a miniature snout, nostrils flaring as it takes its first breaths of outside air.
I don’t remember opening the incubator, but suddenly my hands are reaching in, gently supporting the egg as more pieces fall away. It feels right, necessary, like the most natural thing in the world to cradle this hatching life in my palms.
A small, squeaky sound emerges from the crumbling shell—not quite a roar, more like a kitten’s mewl with ambitions of grandeur. Another push, another crack, and then the shell falls away in large chunks, revealing the tiniest, most perfect dragon I could have imagined.
It’s no bigger than a kitten, with scales the deep blue of twilight and eyes that glow like amber embers. Delicate, translucent wings unfurl slowly, still damp from the egg. Its tail curls around my wrist as if anchoring itself to me, and its head—adorably oversized for its body—swivels to look directly into my eyes.
“It’s looking at me,” I say to the empty room, panic rising in my chest. “Why is it looking at me like that? Is it hungry? Is it going to breathe fire? Am I going to be the first human to die by newborn dragon flames?”
“It’s imprinting on you.”
I jump, nearly dropping the tiny creature, which squeaks indignantly and clings tighter to my wrist. Roarke stands in the doorway, filling the frame with his massive presence.
Of course he’s here. He’s always exactly one sentence away whenever I need him.
“How did you—?” I start to ask, but he cuts me off with a twitch of his ear.
“I could hear the shell breaking,” he says, as if that’s a completely normal sentence. He must have seen the shock on my face because he chuckles and says, “Just joking. I heard you freaking out and let myself in. For the record, I knocked a few times.”
He moves closer, his golden eyes focused on the small dragon in my hands. “The first scent it registered was yours. It thinks you’re its mother.”
“NO,” I say, my voice rising to a pitch that makes the dragon tilt its head curiously. “I CAN’T BE A MOTHER TO A FIRE-BREATHING LIZARD. I can barely keep my sourdough starter alive. I killed three succulents last month. THREE. They’redesigned to survive the apocalypse, and I still managed to murder them.”
