Page 50 of Purring for Her Lion
“Oh my gods,” she breathes. “This is amazing.”
I huff. “It’s just food.”
She hums, content. “No, it’s magic.”
But then—she stills. Her expression shifts—not bad, not displeased, justdistant.
I frown. “Is it wrong?”
She swallows, slowly, then shakes her head. “No.” Her voice is softer now, wistful. “It’s perfect.”
I wait.
And then, quietly, almost too quietly: “My dad used to make it just like this.”
Something in me tightens. I know about her father. She doesn’t talk about it much, but I know his death was hard on her.
I say nothing. But I sit. I wait.
She takes another bite, looking down at the bowl like it holds something more than just food. Like it holds a memory she doesn’t want to lose.
For a while, we don’t speak. She eats, and I let her. And when she’s done, I take the tray and set it aside.
Her eyes glow with amusement, even as exhaustion pulls at her expression. “You’re really committed to this whole vet thing, huh?” she teases, her voice soft, raspy. “Taking care of wild animals that meander onto your property.”
I study her for a long moment. Then I say, quiet and certain: “I take care of what’s mine.”
She freezes. I see it—the slight hitch in her breath, the flicker of surprise in her gaze.
I should have kept that to myself. But I don’t regret it. Because it’s true. She’s not just some neighbor anymore. Not just some inconvenient city girl trying to homestead. She’s in my space, in my thoughts, in my routines. She’s mine. Even if she doesn’t realize it yet. Even if she’s not ready to hear it.
She swallows, slowly. Then—because she always covers emotions with humor—“Oh?” Her lips curve, teasing. “So, what, I’m part of your herd now?”
I tilt my head, considering. “Maybe.”
Her eyes widen. “Wait. Was that...was that almost a joke?”
I stand, gathering the tray. “Sleep.”
Liana stares after me, suspicious. But she doesn’t argue. She just sinks deeper into the blankets, watching me with something soft and unreadable in her gaze.
I leave the room before she can say anything else.
When I return an hour later, after checking on her chickens and preparing more medication, I find her fast asleep again. But she’s not alone. Nugget has somehow—despite my explicit instructions about staying on the floor—managed to wedge himself onto the bed. He’s curled in a tight ball of blue scales between her arms, his head tucked under her chin, her hand resting protectively on his neck even in sleep.
They look ridiculous. A full-grown woman and a dragon the size of a large dog crammed onto a bed built for someone twice my size, leaving most of the mattress empty. Impractical. Inefficient. The dragon is probably too warm for someone with a fever. He’ll likely knock something over when he wakes.
I should move him.
I don’t.
Instead, I stand in the doorway, watching them breathe in synchronized rhythm, and feel something settle in my chest. Acertainty. A rightness. This is how it should be. Them here, in my home. Safe. Protected. Mine to care for.
I close the door quietly and leave them to their rest.
CHAPTER 17
LIANA
