Page 5 of Purring for Her Lion
I lift a single eyebrow.
It’s a bad lie. She knows it. I know it. Even the chickens probably know it.
Tension stretches between us. Her heart rate hasn’t slowed—if anything, it’s faster. Her scent has shifted, embarrassment giving way to something more complex.
I don’t say anything. I just turn and start walking toward her property, toward the source of the problem.
“What are you doing?”
“Fixing it.”
“Wait—now?”
I don’t answer or slow down. I can hear her scrambling to gather chickens, cursing under her breath as she follows.
I reach her property line and take in the full scope of disaster she calls a chicken coop. The structure isn’t terrible—basic but functional. But the fencing is a joke. Gaps large enough for a fox to walk through sideways. Support posts barely sunk into the ground. Wire attached with what appears to be duct tape.
My ears flatten in disgust.
I kneel and get to work, extending my claws to secure loose sections. Behind me, I hear her approaching, breathing still uneven.
“You don’t have to do this. I mean, it’s really nice, but I’m sure you have important lion-man things to do.”
I don’t dignify that with a response, continuing to methodically reinforce her fence, aware of her shifting from foot to foot.
“So you’re like an expert on chicken housing?”
I huff quietly. “No.”
“Then how do you know so much?”
I glance up, deadpan. “Because I know how to stop things from getting eaten.”
Her eyes widen, and she opens her mouth, then closes it. For a blessed moment, she’s silent.
It doesn’t last.
“You’re really quiet,” she says, crouching beside me, close enough that her scent envelops me completely.
I secure the last plank, claws making short work of the task. “You’re really loud.”
She gasps, pressing a hand to her chest in mock offense. “That was almost a joke. Are you capable of humor?”
I don’t answer. But as I stand, dusting off my hands, I catch the way her lips curve into a grin. There’s something almost infectious about her energy. It’s annoying.
“I’m Liana, by the way. Liana Reyes.”
I look at her extended hand before taking it. Her fingers are small and soft against my palm, warm and fragile. I release her quickly.
“Roarke.”
“Roarke. That’s a cool name. Very strong. Suits you.”
I grunt noncommittally.
“So, thank you. For the chicken wrangling and fence fixing. I guess I owe you.”
I shake my head once. “No.”
