Page 49 of Purring for Her Lion
“I don’t need?—”
“Drink,” I interrupt, holding out the water glass with two pills. “Then sleep.”
She tries to argue but doesn’t have the energy for it. She takes the medication, drinks half the water, then sinks back into the pillows with a sigh that sounds far too content for someone running a significant fever.
“I need to check on my chickens,” she murmurs, eyes already closing.
“I’ll handle it,” I assure her. “Sleep now.”
She doesn’t need further convincing. Within moments, her breathing deepens, though it’s still congested and irregular. I place the cool cloth on her forehead, and she sighs softly, turning her face into the touch.
I stand there longer than necessary, watching her sleep, cataloging the signs of exhaustion evident in her face. The shadows beneath her eyes. The tension still visible in her forehead even in sleep. The slight furrow between her brows that I want to smooth away with my thumb.
This is my fault. I’ve let her work herself to illness. Let her push beyond reasonable limits. I’ve been so focused on providing for her in physical ways—building structures, securing her property, ensuring her comfort—that I’ve neglected the most basic responsibility: making sure she takes care of herself.
I leave her reluctantly, with Nugget standing guard. There are things to do. Chickens to tend to. Medication to organize. And food—she needs proper nutrition to recover.
I find myself in my kitchen, swiping through my tablet. The bookmarked tabs for her favorite Filipino dishes are starred in a corner. Those are the ones I’ve been studying in secret, learning the dishes that bring her comfort, and keeping the necessary ingredients on hand.
The most recent tab opens automatically to a well-studied recipe: Arroz Caldo. Rice porridge with chicken, ginger, and garlic. A healing food, and a dish that I know is a personal favorite of hers.
Perfect.
I gather ingredients with methodical precision. Chicken, already cleaned and portioned in my freezer. Jasmine rice from the supply store I purchased specifically because it’s what she prefers. Ginger, garlic, onions. Fish sauce. Calamansi juice that I special-ordered from a supplier in the next town over because I noticed it was listed in many of the recipes she favors.
My hands move with practiced efficiency, chopping, measuring, preparing. This is no different from following precise medical protocols. Measure twice, execute once. No wasted movements. No room for error.
I sauté the garlic until golden, add the ginger and onions until the kitchen fills with their fragrance. The chicken goes in next, browning slightly before I add the rice, stirring to coat each grain in the flavorful oil. Water, fish sauce, a precise amount of salt. Then the lid goes on, and the mixture simmers, the scent growing richer by the minute.
While it cooks, I return to check on Liana. She’s still sleeping, though less peacefully now. Her face is flushed, her breathing labored. The fever hasn’t broken yet. I replace the cloth on her forehead with a fresh, cool one, and she murmurs something unintelligible, leaning into the touch.
Nugget watches me with those intelligent amber eyes, his head tilted in a question I can somehow understand.
“She’ll be fine,” I tell him quietly. “It’s just a summer cold. Likely brought on by exhaustion.”
He makes a soft sound that might be agreement, might be concern. His tail curls protectively around the base of the bed.
“The medicine will help,” I continue, not entirely sure why I’m explaining human medicine to a dragon. “And rest. And food.”
I return to the kitchen to finish the arroz caldo, adding a final squeeze of calamansi juice and chopping fresh scallions for garnish. The result looks correct based on the cookbook’s photographs and smells intensely aromatic—ginger, garlic, the savory depth of properly cooked chicken.
When I return to the bedroom with a tray, Liana is stirring, perhaps roused by the scent of food. Nugget immediately perks up, his nostrils flaring as he scents the air, but he stays in his place, understanding this meal isn’t for him.
She wakes again when I bring the bowl to her bedside. Her eyes open slowly, still hazy with sleep, and she blinks up at me like she’s not sure if I’m real.
“... Roarke?”
“Eat.” I set the tray down.
She blinks again. Then her gaze drops to the steaming bowl of arroz caldo, and her expression softens.
“You made this?” she murmurs.
I grunt. “Eat.”
Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t argue. She pushes herself up, and I immediately reach out, steadying her with a hand on her back. She’s so warm. I can feel the heat of her skin through the fabric of her thin shirt. I force myself to let go.
She doesn’t seem to notice, too focused on lifting the spoon to her lips. She inhales sharply at the first taste, her eyes fluttering closed.
