Page 47 of Purring for Her Lion
I remember that day at the hardware store, the way he said those exact words after scaring off the friendly fox-man. I’d thought it was just a moment, just a flare of whatever instinctual protectiveness his species feels. I hadn’t realized he meant it as a permanent state of affairs.
“That was weels ago,” I say weakly. “People change their minds.”
A long silence stretches between us, during which Roarke continues eating his kaldereta with maddening calm while I sit there having an internal meltdown.
“Liana,” he finally says, my name rumbling from his chest in a way that sends shivers down my spine, “I claimed you as mine to protect. The sooner you accept that as fact, the less anxious you’ll be.”
And then—then!—the man has the absolute gall to continue eating as if he hasn’t just dropped an emotional bomb directly on my head. As if he hasn’t just casually confirmed that yes, he has intentionally inserted himself into every aspect of my life, and no, he has no plans to leave.
I sit there, spoon suspended halfway to my mouth, too stunned to speak. Too stunned to think. Too stunned to do anything but stare at him as he methodically works his way through the rest of his dinner.
“Are you finished?” he asks after a moment, nodding toward my half-eaten plate.
When I don’t answer—because hello, still processing the whole “claimed you as mine” situation—he simply reaches over and hoists the serving bowl half full of beef kaldereta, pouring it atop the mountain of rice on his own plate with efficient movements.
“There’s more on the stove if you’re still hungry later,” he informs me, as if that’s the relevant information I need right now. “And I’ve already portioned the extras into storage containers for tomorrow.”
Of course he has. Because apparently, he’s not just territorial about me in some abstract, theoretical way. He’s territorial about me in the most practical, mundane, everyday ways possible. He’s territorial about my food storage. My bathroom products. My sleeping arrangements. My house renovations.
My life.
And the most terrifying part? I think I like it.
CHAPTER 16
ROARKE
Something’s wrong.
I know it the moment I near our property and I hear nothing. Usually, the chorus of chaos within Liana’s house rings clearly throughout the day. Chickens clucking, Liana’s off-key singing, and Nugget screeching along and following her lead.
But today there’s nothing. Just the heavy stillness of August heat pressing down on everything, and an absence where her chaos should be.
Without thought, I’m already moving toward her house with quickening steps, a knot forming in my chest that I refuse to call worry.
The chickens are quiet, too. No Chestnut strutting around the yard like she owns it. No Buttercup pecking at imagined threats. The coop door is closed, which is correct, practical, but unusual for this time of day when Liana typically lets them free-range before evening.
I let myself through the door and find Nugget curled up in the foyer, his ever-enlarging body tucked into a tight ball of sapphire scales aligned perfectly to the rug he laid upon.
His head lifts as I enter, amber eyes fixing on me with an expression that’s far too intelligent and concerned for a creature his age. He makes a soft, warbling sound—not his usual greeting of enthusiastic chirps and tail thumps.
“Where is she?” I ask him, not bothering to pretend I’m here for any other reason. I could scent her in the living room beyond, but it seemed a smarter strategy to let the guarding dragon lead me to her.
Nugget uncurls, stretching to his full height—nearly as tall as my waist now—and moves to the living room, his talons lightly tapping against the wood floor. His usual exuberance is muted, his movements careful, deliberate.
Just beyond, I glimpse the kitchen that should be in its usual state of creative chaos—flour dusting every surface, mixing bowls stacked precariously, the air thick with yeast and sugar.
Instead, it’s unnervingly tidy, just as I had left it this morning before I went to the clinic.
No dough rising on the counter. No ingredients scattered across the workspace. The oven is cold and dark.
I follow Nugget through the house, my senses cataloging details with growing concern. No laptop open on the table, humming with half-finished work projects. No music playing—she always has music, at the very least the Monster Tunes station streaming some relentless beat that follows her movements like an echo.
As expected, we find her in the living room, a blanket-wrapped mound on the couch despite the fact that her ancient air conditioning system is clearly struggling against the August heat.
Even from the doorway, I can hear the shallow, congested sound of her breathing.
Sick.
