Page 10 of Purring for Her Lion (Harmony Glen #5)

LIANA

Roarke sets the incubator on my kitchen table like it’s the crown jewels, the dragon egg inside catching the light, slick and iridescent. My hands twitch with the urge to touch it again.

I remember the way it felt beneath my fingertips, that alien shimmer, and force myself to stay back. One reckless moment was how this all started, me and the lion-man who makes my kitchen look like a playhouse.

He tweaks the controls with those massive hands, careful as if he’s holding a beating heart, and I try not to remember waking up tangled around him this morning, my face pressed into his golden fur. No. Not going there.

“We need a more permanent location.” His voice fills the room, low and absolute. “Kitchen’s too variable. Temperature fluctuations. Foot traffic.”

I nod, like I’m someone who definitely has a plan for a dragon egg and not just a woman barely managing to keep chickens alive. “Right. Stable environment. I was thinking maybe the spare room? It’s quiet, gets morning light, no direct sun, and?—”

A squawk slices through the air. Roarke’s ear flicks. He glances at the window, and I recognize his “the chickens are loose again” face.

“Oh no,” I groan, already heading for the door. “Please tell me that’s not?—”

“Chickens,” he confirms, following me with those deliberate, heavy steps. “Headed toward my property. Again.”

I bolt outside, bare feet pounding the porch and then the cool grass. Sure enough, there’s my flock, parading in single file toward Roarke’s pristine lawn. Chestnut leads, head high, like she’s on a mission from God.

“How?” I demand, hands on my hips. “HOW? We just fixed that coop!”

Roarke stands beside me, watching the march with a resigned amusement. “They found a weakness.”

“They always do,” I mutter, stomping after them. “It’s like they have secret chicken meetings at night. ‘Alright, ladies, Buttercup found a loose board on the east side. We move at dawn.’”

A rumble comes from Roarke. I nearly trip—it’s a laugh. A real, deep, quiet laugh. It rolls through me, warm and unexpected.

I stare at him, forgetting the chickens for a second. “Was that…did you just laugh? At my joke?”

He looks down, the corners of his mouth threatening a smile. “They do seem organized.”

I’m still reeling when we hit his property line, where my chickens are now busy tearing up his perfect grass.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, already shooing them back. “I swear, they’re doing this on purpose.”

He just nods, thoughtful. “We need to rethink your entire setup.”

“The coop?”

“Everything.” His voice is pure conviction. “Your homestead layout is inefficient. Vulnerable. The dragon will need space. Security.”

I blink, trying to keep up. “Are we talking a coop repair or a total renovation?”

His eyes lock on mine, unwavering. “Both.”

So instead of spending an hour setting up the incubator, I end up watching Roarke sketch a full homestead redesign on my kitchen table. The dragon egg sits nearby, humming with quiet presence. Roarke’s hands are huge, but precise, making neat lines on printer paper I scavenged from my dusty office.

“Chicken coop here.” He marks a spot far from the current coop. “Higher ground. Better drainage. Further from predator access points.”

I peer over his shoulder, trying to follow. “But that’s where I wanted my herb garden.”

“Herbs go here.” He taps another spot, no hesitation. “Morning sun. Sheltered from wind. Close to kitchen for convenience.”

I don’t know if I’m impressed or steamrolled. “Have you been planning this since you first saw my place?”

His ear twitches. “Maybe.”

Of course.

“And what’s this?” I point to a big area labeled with a symbol I don’t recognize.

“Dragon enclosure.” Like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “For when it hatches.”

Right. Because soon I’ll have a fire-breathing lizard running around. Just another day in paradise.

“And here,” he adds, “goat pen.”

I blink. “Goats? I don’t have goats.”

“Yet.” He says it like it’s already decided. “You’ll want them. Good for milk. Clearing underbrush.”

“Will the dragon eat them?” I ask, only half-joking.

He gives me a flat look. “No. Blue mountain dragons are primarily fish and game eaters.”

“Oh. Good.” I look at the plan. It’s a lot. Overwhelming, but also… exciting. Like he sees something here I never dared to imagine. “This is going to take forever.”

“Several weeks.” He’s matter-of-fact. “Working around my clinic schedule.”

A little jolt goes through me at the idea of him here, every day, for weeks. “You don’t have to?—”

“I do.” Simple. “The egg is a shared responsibility now.”

Our eyes meet over the plans, something thick and unspoken passing between us. We’re in this together, whether we chose it or not. I look away, cheeks burning.

“Well, if you’re going to be working here, you need fuel.” I escape to the kitchen, clinging to normalcy. Cooking—I can do that. “I’ll set up the crock pot. We can work and eat all day.”

His nose twitches. “More bread?”

I laugh, grabbing ingredients. “Better. Filipino comfort food. Adobo, kare kare, and if you’re very good, lumpia.”

“Lumpia?” He tests the word, deep and rough.

“Filipino spring rolls. It was part of my thank you basket I gave you. Everybody loves them. They’re like currency.” I start chopping onions and garlic, the motions soothing. “My lola used to say you could solve any neighborhood dispute with lumpia.”

Roarke returns to his sketches, making notes and adjustments. The kitchen fills with the sharp, sweet smell of simmering garlic, vinegar, bay leaves. It grounds me, anchors me after all the chaos of storms and dragon eggs.

“First priority is the chicken coop,” Roarke says after a while. “Then the incubation area. The rest can wait.”

I stir the peanut sauce. “What’s your schedule like? I know you have the clinic.”

“Mornings at the clinic. Afternoons here. Weekends free.” Like rearranging his life for my disaster farm is normal.

“That’s… a lot of your time,” I say.

He shrugs, a ripple over his broad shoulders. “The egg won’t wait.”

“Right. The egg.” Like that’s the only reason. Professional. Not because he wants to be here, or with me.

We work together better than I’d expect. Once the crock pots are going, I follow him outside. He’s already unloaded tools and supplies from his truck. Things I didn’t even know existed.

“Have you built a lot of chicken coops?” I ask, holding a board while he drills.

“No.”

“Then how do you know what to do?”

He pauses. “I built shelters. In the war.”

The words surprise me. I’ve wondered, but never asked. “You were in a war?”

He nods, working again. “Rodinian campaigns. Three of them.”

I picture him in battle. It fits—the way he moves, the way he reads a situation.

“Is that why you became a vet?” It slips out. “Because of the war?”

He’s silent so long I regret it. Then, just as I’m about to apologize, he answers.

“War destroys.” Quiet, matter-of-fact. “Healing builds.”

The words hit me. Four syllables, more revealing than any story.

“Okay, that’s very poetic,” I say, trying to play it off. “And mildly swoon-worthy.”

He looks up, honestly confused. “What?”

“Nothing.” I flush. “Just—it’s a beautiful way to see it. From destruction to healing.”

He seems baffled, but nods, going back to work. I watch his hands, big and gentle. Hands that hurt in war, now healing. It makes my heart stutter.

Midday, I make us eat. We sit on the porch steps, paper plates balanced on our knees. Roarke takes a bite of adobo and makes a sound that’s almost a purr.

“Good?” I ask, grinning.

He nods, already reaching for more. “Very.”

I watch, amazed, as he demolishes three plates: adobo, kare kare, and a whole batch of lumpia. It’s satisfying, feeding him, watching him eat like he’s starving.

“I recognize some of these from the dishes you made. You cook like this often?” he asks.

“When I’m stressed. Or happy. Or breathing. So basically, yes.” I laugh, tucking my hair back. “Baking and cooking are my constants. No matter what’s happening, I can make something good and feel together for a minute.”

He studies me. “Your actual life seems together enough.”

I snort. “Says the man who’s rebuilt my chicken coop twice and is now redesigning my entire property because I clearly have no clue.”

“Having ideas and executing them are different skills.” His voice is soft, almost gentle. “You have the vision. You’ll learn the rest. I have the technical knowledge.”

I blink, unexpectedly touched. “That’s actually really nice.”

His ear twitches. “Just practical.”

After lunch, we get back to work. By late afternoon, the new coop is taking shape. Sturdy, dry, secure. Roarke mentions, offhand, he’s built something similar at his clinic.

“For what?” I ask, hammering.

“Future eggs,” he says, adjusting a beam. “Or other incubation needs.”

The implication lands. “You think there might be more? More dragon eggs?”

He shrugs. “Possible. The first wasn’t a coincidence.”

“What do you mean?” I press.

His tail flicks, a sign he’s uncomfortable. “Dragons choose. Where their eggs go. Who finds them.”

I stare. “You’re saying a dragon mother left her egg for me? Why would any intelligent creature pick me?”

He meets my eyes, steady. “That’s what we need to find out.”

By sunset, the chickens are secure in their new fortress.

Chestnut glares at me through the wire, already plotting her next move.

More importantly, we’ve set up a climate-controlled room for the dragon egg, complete with monitoring equipment.

Roarke double-checks the settings, blue lights casting shadows across the walls.

“It looks like a sci-fi movie in here,” I say, watching the lights. “Very high-tech for my farmhouse.”

“Necessary.” He makes a final adjustment. “Blue mountain dragons are sensitive.”

I step closer, staring at the egg. In the blue glow, the shell shimmers, alive.

“It’s beautiful,” I murmur. “I still can’t believe this is real.”

Roarke stands beside me, massive and reassuring. “Believe it,” he says. “In about six weeks, you’ll be a dragon guardian.”

Six weeks. My life will change again.

“We’ll be dragon guardians,” I correct, putting weight on the “we.” No way I’m doing this alone.

His eyes meet mine, warm and unreadable. “Yes,” he says. “We will.”