Page 64 of Purring for Her Lion
One of the baby goats—the black one with the white splash on her face—headbutts his knee. Anyone else would stumble. Roarke doesn’t even shift his weight. He just reaches down with one massive hand and scratches between her ears, those deadly claws gentle against her fuzzy head.
That’s Roarke in a nutshell. Terrifying power, infinite gentleness.
I take another sip of hot chocolate, not even pretending I’m doing anything but watching him now. The way his ears flick back when the mother goat gets too close. The careful precision of his movements, like he’s always aware of his size, his strength. The set of his shoulders that I’ve learned to read like a book—relaxed now, not carrying the tension that sometimes grips him when he wakes from nightmares he won’t describe.
“Are you just going to stand there staring at me all morning?” His deep voice carries across the yard, though he hasn’t turned around.
Heat rushes to my face. Busted. “I was not staring.”
He turns slowly, those golden eyes finding mine unerringly. The rising sun catches in them, turning them to amber fire. His expression is unreadable to most, but I’ve learned to see the subtle shifts—the slight quirk at the corner of his mouth, the barely-there lift of one eyebrow. He’s amused.
“Right.” The word rumbles from his chest, a single syllable packed with disbelief.
He finishes with the goats, latching the feed container with careful precision. Everything Roarke does is precise. Deliberate. When he starts toward the porch, my heart kicks up a notch. It’s ridiculous. We live together. We sleep together. I’ve seen every inch of him, touched every scar. Yet watching him walk toward me still makes my pulse stutter.
His steps are unhurried, powerful, the grace of a predator who’s never needed to rush. His presence is too large, too steady, too much. He fills my vision, my space, my life in a way that should be overwhelming but somehow just feels right.
I clear my throat, pretending I’m not warm all over. “You’re up early. Couldn’t sleep?”
He stops in front of me, so close I have to tilt my head back to look at him. Seven feet of solid muscle and barely contained power, yet I’ve never once felt afraid. Not of him.
“You weren’t in bed when I woke up.” His voice is soft, but there’s an undercurrent there. Concern, maybe. Or something more possessive.
My breath catches. We’re still adjusting to this—to sharing a space, sharing a life. The transition from neighbors to lovers to more happened so naturally I barely noticed until he was simply there, part of my days and nights like he’d always been. Roarke has always been a protector, a caretaker, a man of few words but steady actions. He doesn’t waste breath on unnecessary things, which makes the words he does choose matter more.
“I wanted to watch the sunrise.” I lift my mug. “And I made hot chocolate.”
His nose twitches, scenting the air. “I smelled it.”
Of course he did. His senses are sharper than mine—another alien trait that sometimes leaves me feeling distinctly human in comparison. Not that I mind. I like our differences. I like the rumble in his chest when he’s pleased. I like the way his eyes change in the dark, pupils expanding to see what I can’t. I like that his body temperature runs hotter than mine, making him the perfect heater on cold nights.
I like him. All of him.
He never says much, but I see the way he claims me, in all the little things he does. The fence he mended without being asked. The predator tracks he checks for around the property line. The way he stocks my favorite tea even though he thinks it smells like wet grass.
Like now—when he lifts a clawed hand and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers brushing my cheek, gentle despite his size. His palm is rough with calluses, warm against my skin. I lean into his touch without thinking, a moth to flame.
“Come back inside,” he murmurs, his voice deep and gruff. “It’s cold.”
I glance down at my thin pajama top and shorts. He’s not wrong. The morning air has left goosebumps across my skin, though I suspect they’re not entirely due to the temperature.
A slow smile tugs at my lips. “You just want me in bed again, don’t you?”
Roarke doesn’t deny it. He just makes a low, rumbling sound in his chest—not quite a growl, not quite a laugh—and wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me into his warmth. His fur issoft against my bare arms, his body solid and real. I let myself melt into him, resting my head against his chest, listening to the steady, grounding sound of his heartbeat.
“Maybe,” he admits, his breath stirring my hair. “Is that a problem?”
I shake my head, rubbing my cheek against his fur. “Not even a little bit.”
His hand slides up my back, cradling the nape of my neck with a gentleness that still surprises me. Those claws that can gut a predator threatening my chickens now trace delicate patterns on my skin, raising shivers that have nothing to do with cold.
“You should wear more clothes if you’re going to be outside.” His tone is matter-of-fact, but I hear the concern underneath.
“Why? So I don’t catch cold, or so the delivery guy doesn’t see me in my pajamas again?” I tease, remembering how Roarke had practically herded me inside last week when the package truck arrived while I was watering plants in a tank top.
His eyes narrow slightly. “Both.”
I laugh, the sound bright in the morning air. “You’re ridiculous. No one can even see the house from the road.”
