Page 13 of Purring for Her Lion (Harmony Glen #5)

ROARKE

Twenty Minutes Ago…

It’s too quiet. I pause mid-inventory, a jar of wound salve forgotten in my hand as I listen for the familiar sounds from next door.

No chickens squawking. No Chestnut’s mischievous chirping. No Liana’s voice carrying across the property line, either singing to her sourdough starter or cursing at a stubborn jar lid.

Nothing.

Just silence, and silence from Liana’s property never means anything good.

I set down the jar and glance at the clinic window. Her house sits there, innocently still, windows open to catch the spring breeze. No movement. No chaos. No Liana.

This is concerning.

Not that I need to know her whereabouts at all times. I don’t. Obviously.

That would be obsessive and inappropriate and exactly what I’ve been doing for the past three weeks.

But it’s Tuesday. Tuesdays are bread days. She always bakes on Tuesdays, filling her kitchen with scents that drift across our property line, distracting me from inventory counts and patient charts. It’s become a rhythm I depend on without admitting I depend on it.

I check the time. 10:47 AM. By now, I should be smelling sourdough or ube or that cinnamon-sugar concoction she made last week that had me inventing reasons to stop by.

Instead, nothing. Just spring air and distant bird calls.

Fine. A quick check won’t hurt. Professional courtesy. Neighborly concern. Absolutely nothing to do with the knot forming in my chest.

I step outside, scanning her property with practiced efficiency. The chicken coop—our latest reinforcement project—stands secure, no signs of distress from the flock inside. Good. One potential disaster eliminated.

Which leaves Liana herself unaccounted for.

I follow her scent trail, not even pretending I’m doing anything else. Her scent is distinctive—warm bread and cinnamon with undertones of citrus from that lotion she uses. It leads down her porch steps, across the yard, and to the gravel driveway where her truck usually sits.

The truck is gone.

She left. Without telling me.

I pull out my phone, checking for missed messages. Nothing. No “Roarke, I’m heading into town” or “Don’t worry if you don’t hear me yelling at chickens for a few hours” or even one of those strings of random emojis she sends that I pretend to find annoying.

I absolutely do not feel a twist of irrational betrayal. That would be ridiculous.

She’s an independent adult who doesn’t need to report her movements to me. I am not her keeper or her mate or anything but her neighbor who happens to spend most of his free time rebuilding her homestead piece by piece.

Still, I call her.

Straight to voicemail. Of course.

“It’s me,” I growl after the beep. “Where are you?”

I hang up, immediately regretting the tone. Too demanding. Too possessive. Too revealing of the knot in my chest that tightens with each minute she’s unaccounted for.

I pace the boundary between our properties, my tail lashing behind me. This is pathetic. I do not need to know where one small human woman has gone for a few hours.

Except I do. Because what if she’s in trouble? What if she’s trapped under heavy furniture or tangled in chicken wire or being talked at by that insufferable Mrs. Henderson and her opinions about proper chimera grooming?

I sniff the air again, catching fragments of her scent trail. Flour, as always. Anxiety—which makes my hackles rise. And something else...hardware store smell. Metal. Paint. Sawdust.

She went to the hardware store.

Without me.

For supplies I could have gotten her. For a project I would have helped with. Without asking.

I am not bothered by this. Not at all. I’m simply concerned she’ll buy the wrong gauge of wire or inferior wood screws or that cheap sealant that peels in the first rain.

That’s all.

Besides, I’d already bought all she would need.

I grab my keys, lock the clinic, and drive to town with absolutely no sense of urgency. The speed limit is merely a suggestion, after all, and if I happen to reach Foxer Upper in record time, it’s just because traffic is light today.

The bell jingles as I push open the door, and I immediately pick up her scent, stronger now, mixed with the store’s perpetual blend of metal, lumber, and fertilizer. I follow it automatically, moving through the aisles with purpose.

And then I see her.

She’s in the fencing section, one hand clutching a notebook covered in what appears to be chicken doodles rather than any actual supply list. Her dark hair is pulled back in that messy bun she wears when baking, with stray strands escaping around her face.

There’s a smudge of flour on her cheek that she hasn’t noticed.

She looks small and soft and completely out of her element, squinting at labels like they’re written in ancient hieroglyphics.

But she’s not alone.

Gabe, the fox-man who owns this place, is leaning against a shelf beside her, his rust-colored tail swishing in a way that makes my claws extend involuntarily. He’s smiling. Showing teeth. Standing too close, with rolled-up sleeves displaying forearms in a deliberate, calculated display.

I know that posture. I know that look. I’ve seen male predators sizing up potential mates since before this fox was born.

He’s flirting with her.

And she’s laughing—that tight, awkward laugh she gives when she’s uncomfortable but trying to be polite. Not her real laugh. Not the one that comes out when I deadpan something unexpected or when her chickens do something ridiculous.

“You could always hire a hand,” Gabe is saying, his voice carrying that unmistakable undertone of invitation. “You’d be surprised how many locals would jump at the chance to help a new homesteader. Especially one who cooks like you do.”

My vision narrows, focusing with predatory intensity. Something hot and possessive roars to life in my chest, drowning out rational thought.

She doesn’t need another hand. She has mine. My hands have been rebuilding her homestead for weeks. My hands know exactly what her property needs, what her chickens need, what her dragon will need.

My hands, not his.

“I’m fine!” she says, her voice pitched slightly too high. “I mean, it’s not like I fall off things often. Only once a week, tops.”

Gabe tilts his head, smiling wider. “Well, if you ever need a second opinion?—”

“She doesn’t.”

The words come out before I can stop them, low and sharp. Liana jumps, whirling to face me with wide eyes. Gabe straightens, his tail going still.

“Hey,” Liana says, blinking rapidly. “Didn’t know you were coming.”

I don’t answer her immediately. I’m too busy assessing the situation. The fencing roll Gabe selected. The way he’s positioned himself. The proprietary paw on her shopping cart.

“That wire’s too light,” I say, the words clipped. “She needs heavy-gauge, reinforced joints. That one’ll rust out in two seasons.”

Gabe raises an eyebrow, his tail now perfectly still behind him. “It’s for a coop, not a vault.”

“She has a dragon,” I reply flatly.

It’s a perfect excuse. A logical reason for my interference. Not at all related to the territorial rage curling through my system at the sight of another male offering his assistance when I have been the one providing for her, building for her, ensuring her safety for weeks.

“Fair point,” Gabe concedes, but there’s a knowing gleam in his amber eyes that makes me want to growl.

“Okay,” Liana cuts in, her cheeks flushed with what might be embarrassment or annoyance or both. “Let’s all take a breath. I just came here for wire and maybe a shovel that doesn’t bend in half if I look at it funny.”

I shift my attention to her, finally allowing myself to really look. She’s tired. There are shadows under her eyes, probably from staying up late again. The bandage on her knuckle is new—a kitchen injury, most likely. Her shirt has a dusting of flour down one sleeve.

She hasn’t had coffee. I can tell by the slight tension around her eyes. She always forgets to make it when she’s rushing.

Something in me softens at these observations, then immediately hardens again when I catch Gabe still watching her.

“You didn’t tell me you were going into town,” I say, and immediately regret how accusatory it sounds.

“I didn’t think I needed a chaperone to buy nails,” she snaps back, fire flashing in her eyes.

She’s right. She doesn’t. But that doesn’t stop the irrational need to make sure she gets the correct supplies, to prevent her from struggling with heavy items, to keep other males from circling while she’s vulnerable and alone.

So I do what any reasonable, definitely-not-obsessed neighbor would do. I take over completely.

I take the fencing Gabe picked, drop it back on the shelf like the inferior product it is, and grab the heavy-gauge, properly reinforced wire from the top shelf. It goes into her cart without discussion.

Then I start working through the mental list I’ve been compiling of everything her homestead needs.

The right shovel—ergonomic handle, the kind that won’t give her blisters after an hour of digging.

Proper feed for both chickens and a growing dragon.

Nails that won’t bend when she inevitably hits them at the wrong angle.

Wire cutters that fit her smaller hands.

Fireproof sealant for the coop interior, because Nugget has developed the charming habit of practicing his flame bursts near the chicken run.

I move through the store with efficiency, selecting each item with precision, ignoring her confused stare and Gabe’s retreat. The fox-man makes a strategic withdrawal after a few minutes, giving Liana a casual “catch you later” that makes my tail lash against my leg.

We check out in silence, the cashier wisely refraining from small talk as she rings up the purchases. When the total appears, Liana winces. Before she can reach for her wallet, I slide my card across the counter.

“I can pay for my own supplies,” she protests, that stubborn pride flaring in her eyes.

“We’re building on your property. You provide food. I provide materials.” The arrangement makes perfect sense to me. Balanced. Practical. Absolutely not an excuse to provide for her in ways she’ll accept.

She doesn’t argue further, just watches as I load everything into her truck, securing it with bungee cords. When I finish, I hold out my hand for her keys.

“I can drive,” she says, a thread of defiance in her voice.

“Fine.” I walk around to the passenger side, folding myself into her too-small cab, my knees nearly touching the dashboard.

She gets in, inserts the key, then just sits there, hands on the wheel, not starting the engine. I can feel her gathering her thoughts, preparing for a conversation I’m not sure I want to have.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” she finally says, turning the key.

I stare straight ahead as the engine rumbles to life. “I don’t like other people giving you bad advice,” I mutter. “Or hovering.”

“He was being helpful,” she counters, pulling onto the main road.

I make a sound low in my throat that isn’t quite a growl but definitely contains growl-adjacent elements. “He was wasting your time.”

We drive in silence for a moment, the tension between us growing thicker with each passing mile. I can smell her confusion, her annoyance, and something else—something warm and sweet that makes my chest tighten.

“You know you can’t just growl your way through every interaction, right?” she finally says, her knuckles white on the steering wheel.

I don’t hesitate. “I can if it works.”

The corner of her mouth twitches, almost a smile before she suppresses it. She’s trying to stay annoyed with me, but something in her is responding to my ridiculous possessiveness, and we both know it.

“Roarke,” she says, and the sound of my name in her mouth sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine, “you can’t keep acting like I’m yours.”

I look at her then, really look at her, allowing myself to see past the flour smudges and the messy hair to the woman beneath.

The woman who bakes bread specifically for me.

Who reorganized her kitchen to accommodate my height.

Who texts me pictures of her latest creations with question marks, seeking my approval.

The woman who, in every way that matters, has been acting like she is mine for weeks.

“Then stop acting like you are,” I say, the words coming out with more raw honesty than I intended.

She inhales sharply, her eyes widening, but doesn’t respond. We finish the drive in silence, the words hanging between us, too significant to dismiss, too dangerous to examine closely.

When we arrive at her homestead, I unload the supplies methodically, arranging everything for efficient use. She stands on her porch, watching me work, her expression unreadable.

“And for the record,” I say finally, stacking the last of the lumber against the shed, “I’m not territorial about your cart.”

She raises an eyebrow, waiting.

I meet her gaze steadily. “I’m territorial about you.”

The admission hangs in the air between us, honest and unavoidable. I don’t wait for her response, just continue working as if I haven’t just laid bare the truth we’ve both been dancing around for weeks.

Because the truth—the simple, undeniable truth—is that somewhere between fixing chicken coops and incubating dragon eggs, somewhere between accepting containers of leftovers and building herb gardens, I’ve claimed her as mine.

Whether she’s ready to acknowledge it or not.