Page 11 of Purring for Her Lion (Harmony Glen #5)

ROARKE

That first day, completing her chicken coop brought me a satisfaction I hadn’t felt since, well, since before the war.

The solid structure, precisely built with no wasted materials or effort, stands as a testament to proper planning and execution.

When I secure the final latch—one that not even Chestnut, the obvious mastermind of the bunch, could manipulate—Liana lets out a small cheer beside me, bouncing slightly on her toes. Her joy is disproportionate to the task completed, and yet, I find myself fighting a smile.

“This is amazing,” she says, running her hand along the reinforced wire. “It’s like a chicken fortress. Fort Clucks-a-Lot.”

I should be annoyed by the ridiculous name. Instead, I feel my ear twitch with amusement.

The chicken coop is just the beginning. There’s the entire property to sort out, security measures to implement, proper fencing for the future goats she doesn’t yet know she needs, and of course, the dragon egg incubation setup.

Logically, I should be overwhelmed by the scope of work ahead.

Instead, I’m mentally cataloging materials, calculating time requirements, and planning efficient execution while she talks about painting the coop “a cheerful yellow, to match the chickens’ personalities. ”

Her food, though. That’s the real problem.

If I hadn’t already known Liana was mine, I’d have claimed her instantly the moment the first spoonful of her adobo touched my tongue.

There’s more magic in this food than the whole of Crystalline Springs.

The explosion of flavors—tangy, savory, perfectly balanced—nearly makes me groan out loud. I manage to contain it to a slight rumble in my chest, but her answering smile tells me she heard it anyway.

This is dangerous territory. Far more dangerous than drills or combat training. I am being domesticated by a human woman who can’t even keep her chickens contained, and the worst part is, I crave it.

Food has always been fuel, nothing more. I’ve eaten military rations for years. I’ve survived on bland, protein-rich supplements designed for Rodinian metabolism.

But Liana’s cooking…

The rich, complex flavors of her Filipino dishes hit my system like a drug. The perfect balance of spicy, savory, sweet, and sour elements activate parts of my brain I didn’t know existed.

Over the next few days, I find myself thinking about her adobo during patient examinations. Remembering the way the tender chicken fell apart with just the barest pressure from my fork. The vinegar-soy marinade perfectly complemented by bay leaves and peppercorns.

It becomes embarrassingly clear by the end of the first week that I will restructure my entire schedule around her meals.

“You don’t have to come over every day,” she tells me on the third evening, even as she’s filling a plate with pancit that smells like it could bring the dead back to life. “I’m sure you have better things to do.”

I don’t. That’s the truth. Nothing is better than spending time with her. Hell, being in proximity to her.

“The dragon egg needs monitoring,” I say instead, which isn’t technically a lie. The egg does need monitoring. Just not daily in-person visits when we have the remote alert system set up.

She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue, just hands me a plate heaped with noodles and vegetables and chunks of protein that make my mouth water before I’ve even taken a bite.

We fall into a rhythm that feels dangerously close to domesticity. I close the clinic at four, drive directly to her homestead, and spend the evening working on whatever project is next on my meticulously organized list.

Currently, it’s the goat pen. She follows me around, asking questions, handing me tools before I even realize I need them, chattering about her day, her chickens, her latest baking experiment.

“I don’t have goats,” she reminds me for the fifth time as I sink a fence post into the ground.

“Yet,” I respond, tamping down the soil around the post with perhaps more force than necessary. “You said you wanted them. This will ensure that you will one day.”

By the time darkness falls each evening, we’ve made measurable progress, and she insists on feeding me dinner. We eat on her porch when the weather allows, or at her small kitchen table when it doesn’t.

Then we check on the dragon egg together, monitoring its temperature, analyzing the subtle changes in its shell pattern, discussing what will happen when it hatches.

And every night, without fail, she presses containers of leftovers into my hands as I leave.

“I always make too much,” she says. “I only know how to make family-sized portions.”

I accept the containers without argument, and keeping to myself that she has considered me family, in a roundabout way.

I, of course, don’t need her food. My refrigerator at home is fully stocked with the standing order I have with the local butcher, and I am completely capable of taking care of myself.

I take her food because refusing her feels impossible. Because the thought of her cooking for someone else, anyone else, makes my claws extend involuntarily.

The first weekend, we go into town together. My truck, her list—pages long and organized by store. The Mack’s Snack and Pack for pantry staples. The Harmony Market to deliver her eggs to Ogram and buy some fresh produce. The hardware store for tools she’ll need to maintain what we’re building.

“I can handle this on my own,” she insists as I load sixty pounds of chicken feed into the truck bed like it weighs nothing.

“I know,” I lie, because we both know she would have struggled to load even half that weight. Her human frame is small, soft in all the places that matter. The thought of her straining under heavy bags makes something protective and primitive rise in my chest.

At the checkout, she tries to pay for everything. Actually steps in front of me, credit card already in hand. “I’ve got this,” she says firmly.

I let her win this round. Partly because the stubborn set of her jaw tells me arguing would be pointless. And also because I’m already planning to pay for the more expensive items at the hardware store.

When she’s not looking, I slip the cashier my card and quietly add a premium bird feed supplement, additional building materials, and a set of high-end garden tools to the order.

The cashier, a knowing smile on her face, rings them up separately and hands me the receipt before Liana returns from examining seed packets.

Liana narrows her eyes when she sees the extra bags being loaded.

“Store promotion,” I say smoothly. “Buy one, get one.”

She doesn’t believe me for a second, but she lets it slide, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

By the time we return to her homestead, the truck filled with supplies, I’ve already mentally rearranged my schedule for the next month. Patients in the morning. Liana’s projects in the afternoon and evening. Weekend supply runs and major construction work.

The dragon egg’s projected hatching date marked in red on my calendar.

I’ve restructured my entire life around her in less than two weeks.

This is standard fated mate behavior. I know this.

I’m not an idiot. The compulsive need to provide, protect, ensure her environment is secure and comfortable.

The territorial satisfaction I feel seeing my work on her property.

The way her scent has become familiar, necessary.

The way food tastes better when she’s made it, when we share it.

But acknowledging it would make it real. And making it real would mean admitting that my carefully constructed solitude, my deliberate emotional distance from everyone and everything since the war, has been dismantled by a chaotic human woman who names her chickens and can’t hammer a straight nail.

Besides, Liana needs to come around to this knowledge on her own. Talking about it directly and openly at this point when she’s not ready will just make her retreat or runaway.

And she’s too invested too much of herself to leave Harmony Glen, and I wouldn’t be the mate she needs if I put her in the position to feel like running.

So I don’t acknowledge it.

I just keep showing up. Keep building. Keep accepting the containers of food she presses into my hands each night. Keep planning the next day’s work as I drive home, her leftovers on the seat beside me, her scent still clinging to my fur.

“You don’t have to do all this,” she says one evening, watching me adjust the settings on the dragon egg incubator.

“I know,” I tell her, another lie.

The truth is, I do have to do this. I have to make myself essential to her. Have to integrate myself so thoroughly into her daily life that the thought of me not being there becomes unimaginable. It’s calculated. Strategic. Military precision applied to emotional infiltration.

I’ve faced gunfire with less determination than I feel ensuring her herb garden beds are properly positioned for optimal growth. I’ve planned combat missions with less attention to detail than I give to organizing her pantry.

Because even though she thinks there’s an expiration date to this arrangement, I know in my soul, this is not temporary.

It cannot be.

And so, I’m already planning spring plantings. Already calculating the dimensions for a larger chicken run, anticipating the flock expansion she doesn’t yet know she wants. Already imagining myself here, with her, long after any reasonable excuse has expired.

And so I plot.

The next project will be the herb garden. It’s the logical next step after completing the goat pen. She’ll need fresh herbs for cooking, especially with winter coming. A small indoor setup for the cold months, expandable to outdoor beds in spring.

I can build it this afternoon, get a head start on preparing the soil, selecting the right starter plants.

Decision made, I head to the agricultural supply store two towns over. They have the specialized growing lights I need, proper soil mixtures, drainage systems. The owner raises an eyebrow when I list my requirements.

“Indoor herb garden?” he asks, already pulling items from shelves.

“For winter,” I confirm. “Expandable to outdoor in spring.”

He nods knowingly. “Planning ahead. Smart. What’s your soil composition like?”

I describe Liana’s property in precise detail—the drainage patterns, sun exposure, existing flora indicating soil quality. I’ve been cataloguing this information since the first day I stepped onto her land, filing it away for future use.

“You’ll want to adjust the pH here,” the owner suggests, adding soil amendments to my growing pile of supplies. “And consider these heritage seed varieties for spring planting. They’ll do well in your climate zone.”

I find myself selecting seeds for plants that won’t go into the ground for eight months. Tomatoes that won’t fruit until late summer. Pepper varieties that require careful tending through multiple seasons. Perennial herbs that will establish themselves over years, not weeks.

I’m planning a future on her land. A future that extends far beyond the dragon egg hatching, beyond any reasonable excuse to remain in her life.

As I load the supplies into my truck, this realization sits heavy in my chest. What am I doing?

There’s no guarantee she’ll even want me around by spring. Humans are fickle creatures. Changeable. She might grow tired of my presence, my bluntness, my tendency to organize her pantry for maximum efficiency when she’s not looking.

I dismiss the thought as quickly as it forms. No.

I’ve already decided. I am making myself indispensable to her.

Creating systems and structures she’ll need to maintain.

Establishing my presence as necessary, beneficial.

By spring, the idea of me not being there to plant these seeds will be unthinkable to her.

It’s manipulative. Calculating. Completely transparent to anyone with half a brain.

But I’m doing it anyway.

On the drive back, I mentally organize the herb garden project.

Indoor setup first. Proper lighting, drainage, soil preparation.

Show her how to maintain it through winter.

Then spring planning. Layout the beds according to sun requirements and companion planting principles.

Schedule planting days, establish watering routines.

My thoughts drift to her kitchen. She’ll need proper storage for dried herbs. Glass containers, clearly labeled. A drying rack for fresh-cut stems. Perhaps a small dehydrator for more efficient processing.

I add these items to my mental list, already calculating dimensions, materials needed, optimal placement in her kitchen.

Eight months. I’m planning eight months ahead as if it’s a foregone conclusion that I’ll still be building things on her property, still eating her food, still orbiting her chaotic little life like it’s become the center of my universe.

Which it has.

I grip the steering wheel tighter, claws extending slightly against the leather.

I know what this is. I’m not stupid. I can recognize mate behavior in myself as clearly as I can diagnose parturition complications in a pregnant unicorn.

The compulsive providing. The territorial planning.

The irrational irritation at mediocre café food that isn’t hers.

But acknowledging it would mean confronting it. And confronting it would mean making decisions about it. And I’m not ready for that yet.

For now, I’m content to build her an herb garden. To show her how to tend it through winter. To pretend this is all perfectly normal veterinary neighbor behavior.

And when spring comes?

I’ll be there, seeds in hand, ready to plant whatever she wants. Because I’ve already decided to make myself indispensable to her life.

And that’s that.