Page 8 of Purring for Her Lion
I might actually die here.
I clutch my basket like a shield, watching him tend the chimera, claws retracted, touch reverent. Something about it makes my heart stutter.
This is the same guy who barely spoke yesterday? He’s cooing at this chimera like it’s his child.
I must make a noise—a sigh, a shuffle, the sound of my dignity evaporating. Roarke’s ear twitches. He glances up, catching me staring.
His golden eyes lock onto mine. I jolt upright, nearly dropping my basket as I thrust it out.
“Hi! I brought bread!”
Did I just yell that?
The chimera startles, and Roarke calms it with a hand on its flank, eyes never leaving me. His face is unreadable, but I swear there’s a glimmer of amusement.
He blinks, slow and assessing, then stands to his full, intimidating height. In the small room, he feels even bigger. The top of my head barely reaches his chest.
I swallow.
He moves toward me, silent, eyes flicking to the basket. The scent of bread thickens. His nostrils flare.
“It’s ube cheese pandesal,” I babble. “Filipino sweet bread. With purple yam and cheese. Along with other dishes in case you prefer more savory. For fixing my coop. And the chickenwrangling. I thought you might like—I mean, I don’t know what you eat, obviously, but everyone likes bread, right? Unless you’re gluten-free, which would be fine, I could make something else?—”
He reaches out. I stop mid-ramble, breath caught, as his large hand hovers over the basket. He takes a roll.
Tears a piece off.
Pops it in his mouth.
Chews.
I wait. Does he hate it? Is it weird? Why didn’t I think about dietary restrictions before spending three hours baking?
His face is stone. Then, finally, he gives a slow, approving nod.
“Good.”
That’s it. One word.
But from Roarke, it’s a sonnet. A five-star review. I just won a championship.
Relief and pleasure flood me. I can’t help the grin that spreads. “High praise from the mighty Roarke.”
He gives me a long, unimpressed look, but the corner of his mouth twitches.
“Don’t push your luck,” he mutters. No edge to it.
He takes another roll.
The chimera makes a curious sound, sniffing the air. Roarke breaks off a tiny piece and offers it. The creature accepts the morsel, gentle.
“She’s beautiful,” I say, nodding to the chimera. “What happened to her leg?”
Roarke strokes her mane, absent. “Thorn bush. Got caught hunting. Nothing serious.”
“Is she yours?”
He shakes his head. “Wild. Local herd.”
