Page 44 of Purring for Her Lion
“Does he breathe fire?”
Before I can answer, Nugget is preening under their attention, allowing gentle pats and making pleasant rumbling sounds. He’ssurprisingly good with the children, careful not to knock them over with his increasingly powerful tail.
“His name is Nugget,” I hear myself explaining. “He lives with Ms. Reyes—the one who bakes the purple bread in Harmony market.” The children nod in recognition. Of course they know who Liana is. Everyone seems to.
Our final stop is the library, where I remember Liana mentioning books she’d put on hold. The librarian greets me by name—unsurprisingly at this point—and produces a stack of books without me even having to ask.
“Liana’s holds,” she explains. “Dragon care, advanced baking techniques, and a novel she’s been waiting for. Tell her that I know they’re due in two weeks, but she can keep them for as long as they need.”
I add the books to my growing collection, wondering when exactly I became Liana’s personal assistant. And why I don’t mind.
As we head back toward home—my home, where Liana is sleeping in my bed—I find myself reflecting on the morning. Everyone knows me here. Everyone greets me, asks after my patients, remembers my orders and preferences.
Somehow, without my noticing or intending it, I’ve become part of this community.
I’ve spent years keeping myself isolated, convinced it was safer. Easier. After the war, after seeing so much loss, maintaining distance seemed like the only logical choice. Don’t get attached, don’t get involved, don’t risk the pain of caring too much.
But looking down at Nugget, who walks beside me with the confident air of someone who belongs exactly where he is, I realize how stupid that approach has been.
I’m already attached—to this strange dragon, to his even stranger human mother, to this town with its residents and its unapologetic friendliness.
And the thought of losing any of it still terrifies me. But not as much as the thought of never having had it at all.
CHAPTER 15
LIANA
I don’t remember fallingasleep at my kitchen table again, but I definitely remember waking up in Roarke’s bed—the third time this week. The sheets smell like him, a blend of pine and that warm, musky scent that’s uniquely his.
Sunlight filters through unfamiliar curtains—practical blackout ones that he installed after I complained about waking up too early. I stretch, my muscles protesting after another marathon baking session, and wonder when exactly this became our normal.
Me working until I literally collapse, him carrying me to his house like some kind of oversized, furry rescue service, and neither of us ever talking about it.
The digital clock on his nightstand reads 3:17 PM. Right on schedule.
This has been our routine for what, two weeks now? Ever since Nugget outgrew my house and screeching every time he got excited about seeing a squirrel. I call them my “overnight shifts”—cooking, cleaning, and working at my place until around7 AM, at which point I’m usually face-down in whatever dough I’ve been kneading.
And then, somehow, I wake up here. In Roarke’s bed. In Roarke’s house.
I never actually witness the transfer. It’s like some kind of strange teleportation magic where I close my eyes in one place and open them in another.
Except the magic is just a seven-foot lion-man who apparently can lift me without disturbing my sleep, which is impressive considering I once woke up because a moth landed on my window three rooms away.
The strangest part isn’t even the mysteriously migrating sleeping arrangements. It’s how natural it all feels. Like we’ve been doing this forever instead of just a couple of weeks.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed—his massive, custom-built bed that makes me feel like I’m drowning in mattress—and pad toward the bathroom. His bathroom, which is now also somehow my bathroom.
Because all my stuff is here.
Not just the basics. Not just a spare toothbrush and generic soap. No. My exact brands.
My specific facial cleanser that I have to order online because nowhere in Harmony Glen carries it. My particular shampoo that smells like coconut and vanilla. Even my weird Filipino papaya soap that my lola used to send me is sitting on a special little dish.
I stare at the neat row of products, all arranged in the precise order I use them. I didn’t bring these here. I never packed anovernight bag. I certainly didn’t organize them with this kind of military precision.
Which means Roarke did.
Roarke went to my bathroom, identified my exact skincare routine, bought duplicates of everything, and arranged them in the correct order of use.
