Page 53 of Purring for Her Lion
I love Roarke Khoran. I love his grumpiness and his precision and his ridiculous territorial instincts. I love how he builds things without being asked, how he learns to cook Filipino food from my cookbooks, how he adjusts his entire life around my chaos without ever once suggesting I should be different.
I love how he takes care of what’s his—as he put it—while never once trying to change what’s his.
Oh god. I’m in love with him. This is terrible. Wonderful. Terrifying. Amazing. I’m having too many feelings at once and my brain is short-circuiting like I’ve plugged too many appliances into one outlet.
Before I can process this emotional power surge, a dark shadow passes overhead. I glance up, expecting to see Feydin the Gargoyle soaring overhead. Instead, it’s a hawk. Massive and predatory, it circles above the yard. My heart leaps into my throat as I spot Marigold, who has wandered a few feet from the group, pecking obliviously at the ground.
“Nugget!” I yell, already on my feet. “Marigold!”
The hawk dives, talons extended, a feathered missile aimed straight for my sweet, ditzy hen.
Everything happens in a blur. Nugget moves with shocking speed, depositing his chicken passengers safely on the ground before streaking like a low-flying missile toward Marigold.
Just as the hawk is about to strike, Nugget rears up on his hind legs, spreads his wings to their full impressive span, and lets outa controlled jet of flame that singes the air just above the hawk’s path.
The bird veers sharply, screaming its displeasure, then flaps away into the distance. Nugget stands guard over Marigold, who seems utterly unfazed by her near-death experience and continues pecking at whatever fascinating speck caught her attention.
“That was AMAZING!” I shout, running toward them. “Nugget, you beautiful, magnificent dragon! That was your first real controlled flame! Not just a hiccup or a burp—a proper, tactical fire-breathing moment!”
Nugget preens under my praise, chest puffed out, head held high. The rest of the flock gathers around him, clucking their approval and admiration. Chestnut actually bobs her head several times while trilling at him, which is high praise indeed coming from her.
“Is everyone okay?” Roarke’s deep voice comes from behind me, and I turn to find him striding across the yard, apparently summoned by either my shouting or some sixth sense he has for when excitement happens on my property.
“Nugget just saved Marigold from a hawk!” I explain, gesturing wildly. “With fire! Controlled, precise, exactly-where-he-aimed-it fire!”
“Yes, I saw.”
Of course he did. He sees everythign apparently.
Roarke’s expression softens as he approaches Nugget, who is practically vibrating with pride. “Well done,” he says, hismassive hand gentle on Nugget’s head. “Excellent flame control. Perfect defensive positioning.”
Nugget leans into the touch, making that rumbling sound that’s halfway between a purr and a growl. He basks in Roarke’s approval just as much as mine, and something about the sight of them together—this massive lion-man praising my dragon son with such genuine pride—makes my heart swell to the point of bursting.
“I love you,” I blurt out.
Both Roarke and Nugget turn to look at me, though I’m pretty sure I was only addressing one of them.
“I mean—I think I’ve loved you for a while,” I continue, the words tumbling out now that the dam has broken. “Maybe since you fixed my chicken coop. Or when you made kaldereta. Or when you carried me to bed when I fell asleep at the table the first time—yes, I know about that, I’m not actually comatose when it happens, I’m just really good at faking sleep because it’s easier than admitting I like being in your arms.”
Roarke stands very still, his golden eyes fixed on me with an intensity that would be frightening if I didn’t know him so well.
“And I’ve been afraid to say anything because what if you get tired of me? What if my chaos becomes too much? What if you decide that territoriality—territory-ness?—only lasts so long and then you want your space back and I can’t handle that because I’ve had too many people leave and I’m rambling, I know I’m rambling, but I can’t stop because if I stop then you’ll respond and what if?—”
His hands cup my face, warm and gentle and so, so big, effectively cutting off my spiral. His golden eyes search mine, and the tenderness I see there makes my knees weak.
“I love you too,” he says simply, the words rumbling from deep in his chest. “And you need to understand something: when I claimed you as mine, when I said your territory was mine to protect, I meant it. I don’t get tired of what’s mine. I don’t leave what’s mine. And I definitely don’t try to change what’s mine.”
I blink up at him, my brain struggling to process that this is actually happening. “Oh,” I say intelligently.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” he informs me, his thumbs stroking gently over my cheekbones.
“That’s very considerate of you to warn?—”
His mouth covers mine, swallowing the rest of my sentence. His lips are softer than I expected, warm and gentle as they move against mine. One of his hands slides to the back of my neck, cradling my head, while the other wraps around my waist, lifting me until I’m flush against his body.
I melt into him, my hands finding purchase in the fur of his chest, my body fitting against his like it was designed to be there. When he deepens the kiss, a low rumbling purr vibrates through his chest and into mine, and I swear I can feel it in my toes.
We break apart only when a curious chirp reminds us we have an audience. Nugget stands nearby, head tilted in confusion, the entire chicken flock gathered around him like spectators at a show.
