Page 12 of Purring for Her Lion (Harmony Glen #5)

LIANA

If I were the type of woman who had her life together, I wouldn’t have been stuck in Foxer Upper Hardware & Feed, staring at a shelf of metal mesh like it was a philosophical dilemma.

I’d be home, not wondering how I ended up lost in a place that smells like dust, livestock, and engine oil, with nothing but a notepad and a bad chicken doodle instead of an actual shopping list. But I’m not organized, and my life is one long stumble through chaos, so here I am: jaw slack, mind blank, and surrounded by fencing options that sound more like late-night infomercial products than actual hardware.

The shelves tower over me, neat rows of silver, gray, and black, each with a garish label screaming for attention.

“MaxGrip.” “Predator Stop Pro-Max.” “ClawDefend Ultimate.” Who names these things?

I mutter to myself, “Why are there seventeen types of chicken wire? And why do they all sound like they’re overcompensating? ”

A low chuckle rumbles behind me. “Because predators are creative and your chickens are not,” the voice says.

I turn, startled. Gabe leans against the nearest shelf, arms folded.

He’s a fox-man, all russet fur and sharp, easy confidence, flannel sleeves rolled up over corded forearms. His tail flicks, slow and lazy.

He looks me over, not missing a single detail: my flour-dusted jeans, the pencil shoved into my messy bun, the amused confusion plain on my face.

“I just want something that is for sure chicken proof. And could possibly withstand a baby dragon,” I say, gesturing at my notepad like it’s a real list. “Fire happens, and all that.”

Gabe grins, and his teeth are just a little too sharp. “Heard about your dragon-chicken. Word gets around.”

“Safe to say that I don’t know what a baby dragon might need. Or if I should even try to contain it,” I admit, images of bonfires and destruction play in my mind. At least the coop is fireproof, thanks to Roarke’s paranoia.

Gabe steps closer, running his clawed hand over the rolls of fencing until he picks one up and swings the heavy bundle into my cart.

His muscles flex. “Welded mesh. Won’t warp.

Holds up even if your future dragon decides to get spicy.

” His grin broadens as he leans against my cart, close enough that the tips of his fur brush my sleeve.

He glances at my notepad, then locks his gaze onto me, voice going low. “You doing your homestead work yourself?”

I wave my notebook with its useless chicken crown doodle. “That’s the dream. Whether the execution matches up is still in the TBD column.”

The truth is, I haven’t done any significant homestead work without Roarke in weeks.

He’s become such a constant presence, showing up every afternoon with tools and plans and that intense focus that makes everything seem manageable.

But he’s at the clinic today, dealing with some kind of magical pest emergency that had him rushing out at dawn, and I’d decided that surely I could handle a simple hardware store run on my own.

“Could always hire help. A lot of us would line up to give you a hand. Especially if you’re doling out some of that lumpia.”

I stare at him, uncomprehending. Is he flirting?

I’m so out of practice that I wouldn’t recognize flirting if it wore a name tag and handed me its business card.

I laugh—too loud, too awkward, my social skills apparently rusting faster than cheap chicken wire. “No, I mean, I don’t really need help. I mean, I guess we all need help. I fall off things sometimes, but it’s fine. Really. I have a system. Mostly.”

Gabe smiles, tail twitching. “If you want a second pair of hands, anytime, just say the word.”

“She doesn’t.”

The new voice is deep, so low it thrums in my chest. Roarke steps out from the aisle behind, golden and massive, mane tied back, eyes narrowed. His body takes up the space, all authority and restrained anger, head lowered and shoulders tight beneath his vest.

He doesn’t look at me. He looks at the fencing. Then at Gabe’s hand. Then at Gabe. “That wire’s too light,” Roarke says, voice flat and hard. “You want something with reinforced joints. That rusts out in two years.”

Gabe straightens, putting just enough distance to make it clear he’s not backing down. “It’s a chicken coop, not a fortress.”

Roarke’s eyes never leave him. “She’ll be keeping a dragon in there.”

The air between them goes tight and silent, like the pause before a fight. Gabe’s smile shrinks, teeth showing for a different reason. “True.”

I want to crawl under a shelf. “I just need fencing. And a shovel that isn’t made of aluminum foil,” I blurt, pushing my cart forward to break the standoff.

Roarke shifts, his gaze landing on the flour stuck to my sleeve, the bandaid on my knuckle, every little detail. Something in him softens, barely, then he turns cold again as he addresses Gabe.

“You didn’t say you were going to town,” Roarke says, voice full of accusation.

“I can buy screws without a chaperone,” I snap, wanting to bite back the words as soon as they’re out.

He doesn’t argue. He takes the fencing from Gabe’s cart, drops it back onto the shelf, and lifts a heavier roll from the top.

Without a word, he fills my cart with the “correct” fencing, then more: better hammer, nails, feed, clamps, wire cutters, fireproof sealant.

He moves like he owns the aisle, like no one else exists.

Gabe just watches, resigned. “Catch you later,” he says to me, soft and private, before disappearing down another aisle.

Roarke marches to the register. The blue-haired cashier doesn’t even look up, just rings us through, glancing nervously between the two of us. The total is enough to make me flinch, but before I can dig out my wallet, Roarke slides his card across the counter.

“I can pay for my own things,” I say, voice brittle.

“We’re building your place,” he says. “You feed me. I handle the rest.” There’s no arguing with the finality in his tone.

He loads the truck himself, every movement efficient and deliberate. When he’s done, he holds a hand out for my keys.

“I’m driving,” I insist.

He just grunts, climbing into the passenger side.

I slide behind the wheel and just sit there, knuckles white on the steering wheel. Roarke fills the cab, his sheer presence clamping around me, all sharp gold and silent anger. He smells like pine and smoke, and it’s impossible to think straight.

I fumble for something, anything, to shrivel the tension. “You didn’t have to help,” I say quietly.

He doesn’t look at me. “I don’t like other people pretending they know what you need,” he says, voice soft but edged. “I don’t like them watching you.”

“He was just being nice,” I say, but my words fail.

Roarke makes a low sound, somewhere between a growl and a warning. “He made you waste time.”

Silence, thick and close.

“You know you can’t just growl at people until they listen, right?” I finally say.

He doesn’t smile. “I can if it works.” His eyes are still fixed forward.

My pulse stutters. I hate how hot my cheeks feel. I also don’t. “You can’t act like I’m yours,” I say, voice thin.

He finally looks at me, eyes wild gold. “Then stop acting like you are.”

There’s no air in the cab. My heart thunders.

“What is that supposed to mean?” I demand, my voice shaking.

He’s breathing hard, jaw tight. “You don’t need Gabe’s help. Or his attention. Or his hands on your stuff.”

I bite back a sound. “So you’re...territorial? About my cart?”

His tail whips the seat. “I’m territorial about you.”

I swallow, trying to get my thoughts in order. “So you’re jealous.”

He looks away, face tight. “You cook for me.”

I blink at the change of subject. “I cook for everyone.”

He shakes his head. “No. You watch what I eat. You remember what I like. You put notes on leftovers for me. You send me pictures of your baking.”

Heat blooms in my chest, then spreads. “That’s just...how I am,” I say quietly. “It’s my...” The word is out of my mouth before I can stop it. “...love language.”

Roarke’s mouth twists, satisfaction flickering over his face. “It’s mine too.”

He gets out, not waiting for me, and yanks the supplies out of the truck bed with single-minded focus. I sit there, stunned. He’s been paying attention. He noticed. Every lunch packed, every extra slice of bread, every text. He felt it, too.

I’m still reeling when he taps on my window. “Coming? The fence won’t wait.”

I nod, numb, fingers clumsy on the handle. I haul myself out. I need air. I need a year to process this. I can feel him behind me, every movement, the weight of his attention. I make it up the steps before his voice catches me.

“I’m not territorial about your cart,” he says, voice low and certain.

I turn. He holds my gaze, eyes hot. “I’m territorial about you.”

It knocks the air out of me. He just turns away, unloading the last of the hardware, as if he hasn’t changed everything with those four words. I stand there, braced on the porch railing, breathless and shaking, and watch him work, golden and sure and all mine.

I stand there, frozen on my own porch steps, watching him work, his movements precise and efficient, his expression unreadable.

I’m territorial about you.

God help me, but I think I like it.