Page 48 of Purring for Her Lion
She’s sick.
I move to her side, kneeling to assess her condition with automatic precision. Her skin is flushed with fever, dark circles prominent beneath her closed eyes. Her hair clings to her forehead in damp strands, and when I press my palm against her cheek, the heat radiating from her skin makes my jaw clench.
“Liana,” I say, the word coming out rougher than intended.
She stirs, eyes fluttering open but not quite focusing. “Mmm?”
“You’re sick.”
“M’fine,” she mumbles, attempting to burrow deeper into her blanket cocoon. “Just tired. Deadline. For project. Client. Then, harvest festival display. Gotta finish…”
She trails off, eyes already closing again. Nugget whines softly, nudging her hand with his snout. She doesn’t respond.
I should have seen this coming. Should have prevented it. The signs were all there—the late nights, the manic energy as she prepared for the town’s harvest festival, juggling her remote work deadlines with her growing lineup of baked goods for the event.
She’s been running herself into the ground for weeks, and I’ve been letting her.
No. Not just letting her. Enabling her. Carrying her to bed when she collapses from exhaustion instead of making her rest properly. Watching her push herself past reasonable limits because her determination is one of the things I?—
I cut that thought off sharply. Not relevant to the current situation.
Nugget makes another concerned sound, his tail curling protectively around the couch. He’s grown attached to her—more than attached. Bonded in a way dragons typically don’t bond with anyone. He reflects her emotions, responds to her needs, protects her with the same fierce dedication I’ve observed in myself.
Which is why he’s so subdued now. He can sense how truly unwell she is.
“She needs proper rest,” I tell him, as if he can understand the nuances of human health. Though with Nugget, I’m never entirely sure what he comprehends. “And medication. And fluids.”
And not to be alone in this too-hot house with its failing air conditioning and no one to make sure she actually stays in bed.
The decision forms with crystal clarity. I don’t bother debating it or considering alternatives. I simply act.
“We’re taking her home,” I inform Nugget, who immediately perks up, recognizing the word “home” and correctly interpreting my intentions.
I unwrap the blanket from Liana’s overheated body, setting it aside. She makes a small, protesting sound that tightens something in my chest.
“Too hot for blankets,” I tell her, sliding one arm beneath her knees and the other around her back. “You have a fever.”
“Cold,” she argues weakly, even as she instinctively turns toward my warmth when I lift her.
She weighs almost nothing in my arms, a fact that both satisfies some primal part of me and concerns the more rational portion of my brain. She’s lost weight recently, too focused on her projects to maintain proper nutrition.
Another failure on my part. I should have been paying closer attention.
“Nugget,” I say, and the dragon is immediately at attention, “get her keys.”
He moves with surprising delicacy for a creature his size, retrieving her key ring from the hook by the door and carefully carrying it in his mouth. His intelligence continues to defy conventional understanding of dragon behavior—another way in which Liana has rewritten the rules simply by existing.
The walk to my house takes less than five minutes, but I’m acutely aware of every labored breath she takes, every degree of fever heat radiating through her thin t-shirt. Nugget trots beside us, unusually subdued, occasionally making soft chirping sounds of concern.
I carry her directly to my bedroom—her bedroom, really, given how often she sleeps there now. The sheets still carry her scent from her last “overnight shift,” though they’ve been washed andchanged since then. I lower her carefully onto the mattress, and she immediately curls onto her side, seeking the coolness of the pillow.
“Stay,” I tell her, though she shows no signs of trying to get up.
Nugget settles on the floor beside the bed, his head resting on the edge of the mattress where he can keep watch over her. I leave them briefly to gather supplies—fever medication, water, a cool cloth for her forehead. When I return, her eyes are open again, though still unfocused.
“Why’m I at your place?” she asks, her voice raspy and weak.
“Your air conditioning is inadequate,” I tell her, which is true but not the complete truth. “And you need supervision.”
