Page 14 of Purring for Her Lion (Harmony Glen #5)

LIANA

I’m not thinking about Roarke. I’m absolutely, definitely not thinking about the way he looked at me yesterday when he said those words.

“I’m territorial about you.”

Nope. Not thinking about it at all, which is why I’ve grated my knuckles twice on this coconut and mixed up salt and sugar in my first batch of pandesal.

The flour on my counter looks like a crime scene, and somewhere in this kitchen is the ghost of my lola, laughing her ass off at my complete inability to focus on something as simple as baking bread—something I could normally do blindfolded, half-asleep, and possibly during an earthquake.

“Stupid lion-man with his stupid territorial…territoriality? Territorialness.” I nod, preferring that word, aggressively kneading a fresh batch of dough.

My hands work on autopilot, pushing and folding, the familiar motions soothing despite my scattered thoughts. The dough transforms under my fingers, from shaggy mess to smooth, elastic potential.

I’m making three different things today—pandesal for tomorrow’s breakfast, ube jam that I’m hoping to sell at Ogram’s market on Saturday, and chicken adobo that will definitely not be portioned into neat containers with Roarke-specific reheating instructions.

Definitely not. Because I’m not thinking about him.

The vinegar hits the hot pan with a satisfying hiss as I pour it over the browned chicken pieces. The familiar scent of adobo fills the kitchen—soy sauce, vinegar, bay leaves, and black pepper swirling together in a tangy cloud that instantly transports me back to my childhood kitchen in Manila.

My lola standing over the stove, wooden spoon in hand, telling me to be patient, to let the flavors meld.

Patience was never my strong suit. Still isn’t.

I check on the ube jam, stirring the vibrant purple mixture before it can scorch.

The color is so intense it almost hurts my eyes—nothing like the muted, apologetic food colors of the corporate cafeterias I escaped from.

Those sterile, efficient spaces where I spent years of my life staring at screens, designing interfaces that no one would remember, eating lunches I could barely taste.

How did I get here? From Manila’s crowded streets to New York’s glass towers to Virginia’s quiet suburbs, and finally to this place—this strange, magical town where my neighbor is a lion-man veterinarian and I’m incubating a dragon egg in my spare room?

It wasn’t a straight line, that’s for sure. More like a panicked zigzag. Manila to New York was ambition—the bright-eyed girl convinced she could conquer American tech.

New York to Virginia was burnout—seeking space, air, some relief from the constant sensory barrage.

But Virginia was wrong too, despite the supportive Filipino community—too quiet but also too loud in all the ways that mattered. Too many social expectations, neighborhood associations with opinions about my garden, people who smiled while asking invasive questions.

I stir the adobo, letting the sauce reduce. It’s the most straightforward recipe in my arsenal—you literally just throw everything in a pot and let it cook—but somehow, the results are always exactly what I need. Comfort. Home. A taste that belongs to me, regardless of where I am.

Harmony Glen wasn’t on any map I studied.

It wasn’t recommended by algorithms or relocation specialists.

It was a random listing I found at 3:00 AM during an insomnia-fueled Zillow binge—a fixer-upper with “character” (code for: might collapse if you sneeze too hard) and “potential” (code for: hope you own power tools and have good health insurance).

But it had land. Actual land. Room for the chickens I’d dreamed about while trapped in my Manhattan apartment.

Space for a garden that wouldn’t be judged by people whose idea of nature was a carefully manicured lawn.

Distance from neighbors who might find my stimming weird or my social batteries confusing.

Except, of course, for the neighbor I ended up with. The one I’m not thinking about.

I slam the lid on the adobo with more force than necessary and turn my attention to the ube jam, which has reached the perfect consistency—thick and glossy, sticking to the spoon for a moment before slowly dripping back into the pot.

I start transferring it into sterilized jars, the repetitive motion allowing my mind to wander again.

Why does Harmony Glen feel more like home than anywhere else I’ve lived? Even my birthplace?

I’ve only been here a few months, but there’s something about this town, these people. They don’t blink when I info-dump about sourdough fermentation for twenty minutes. They don’t ask why I sometimes wear noise-canceling headphones around town.

They just...accept it. Accept me.

For the first time in my life, I don’t feel restless. I don’t feel the itch under my skin that used to drive me to scroll through job listings at 2 AM, convinced that the next city, the next position, the next fresh start would finally be the one where I fit.

I seal the last jar of ube jam and line them up on the counter—a regiment of purple soldiers ready for inspection. The color makes me smile.

In New York, I once had a UX director tell me my color choices were “too ethnic” for the client. Here, people wave at me and holler for more of that “that purple stuff that tastes like heaven.”

The pandesal dough has risen, and I begin shaping it into small rounds, rolling each piece in breadcrumbs before placing them on the baking sheet. My hands know this dance by heart. This is where I’m competent. This is where I don’t second-guess every move, every word, every facial expression.

And that’s the real difference, isn’t it? Here, I don’t feel like I’m wearing a mask. I don’t have to carefully monitor my tone to make sure I sound “professional enough” or worry that my enthusiasm about chickens is making people uncomfortable.

I can just be my chaotic, hyperfixating, food-obsessed self.

Hell, Roarke has seen me at my absolute worst—covered in chicken feed, crying over a burned loaf, rambling about dragon egg temperature fluctuations at midnight—and he still shows up.

Every day. With lumber and tools and that intense focus that makes me feel like I’m the only person in the world who matters.

“No,” I say out loud to the empty kitchen. “We are not thinking about Roarke. We are thinking about bread and jam and chicken. Bread and jam and chicken.”

I slide the pandesal into the oven and set the timer.

The adobo is simmering nicely, the chicken falling off the bone, the sauce reduced to a glossy coating.

Perfect. I’ll portion it out later. Not for anyone specific.

Just...portions. For freezing. For emergencies.

For definitely not giving to tall, furry veterinarians with territorial tendencies.

I’m wiping down the counters when I hear it—a faint tapping sound from the spare room. I freeze, dish towel in hand, listening. There it is again. Tap-tap-tap . Like tiny knuckles rapping on glass.

The egg.

I drop the towel and rush to the spare room, heart suddenly pounding in my throat.

The incubator glows softly in the dim light, the monitoring equipment Roarke installed humming steadily.

Inside, the egg is moving. Actually moving.

Tiny cracks spider across its iridescent surface, and as I watch, a small section of shell bulges outward.

“Oh my god,” I whisper, frozen in place. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.”

I should call Roarke. I definitely should call Roarke. This is exactly the kind of situation where having a magical veterinarian on speed dial would be useful. But my phone is in the kitchen, and I can’t tear my eyes away from the egg. If I leave, even for a second, I might miss it.

The crack widens, and a tiny, claw-tipped appendage pokes through. It’s dark blue, almost black, with scales that catch the light like tiny sapphires. The claw scratches at the shell, widening the hole, determined and focused.

“You’ve got this,” I find myself saying, moving closer to the incubator. “Come on, little one. You can do it.”

As if hearing me, the creature inside redoubles its efforts. More cracks appear, spreading outward like a roadmap. A larger piece of shell falls away, revealing a glimpse of what looks like a miniature snout, nostrils flaring as it takes its first breaths of outside air.

I don’t remember opening the incubator, but suddenly my hands are reaching in, gently supporting the egg as more pieces fall away. It feels right, necessary, like the most natural thing in the world to cradle this hatching life in my palms.

A small, squeaky sound emerges from the crumbling shell—not quite a roar, more like a kitten’s mewl with ambitions of grandeur. Another push, another crack, and then the shell falls away in large chunks, revealing the tiniest, most perfect dragon I could have imagined.

It’s no bigger than a kitten, with scales the deep blue of twilight and eyes that glow like amber embers.

Delicate, translucent wings unfurl slowly, still damp from the egg.

Its tail curls around my wrist as if anchoring itself to me, and its head—adorably oversized for its body—swivels to look directly into my eyes.

“It’s looking at me,” I say to the empty room, panic rising in my chest. “Why is it looking at me like that? Is it hungry? Is it going to breathe fire? Am I going to be the first human to die by newborn dragon flames?”

“It’s imprinting on you.”

I jump, nearly dropping the tiny creature, which squeaks indignantly and clings tighter to my wrist. Roarke stands in the doorway, filling the frame with his massive presence.

Of course he’s here. He’s always exactly one sentence away whenever I need him.

“How did you—?” I start to ask, but he cuts me off with a twitch of his ear.

“I could hear the shell breaking,” he says, as if that’s a completely normal sentence. He must have seen the shock on my face because he chuckles and says, “Just joking. I heard you freaking out and let myself in. For the record, I knocked a few times.”

He moves closer, his golden eyes focused on the small dragon in my hands. “The first scent it registered was yours. It thinks you’re its mother.”

“NO,” I say, my voice rising to a pitch that makes the dragon tilt its head curiously.

“I CAN’T BE A MOTHER TO A FIRE-brEATHING LIZARD.

I can barely keep my sourdough starter alive.

I killed three succulents last month. THREE.

They’re designed to survive the apocalypse, and I still managed to murder them. ”

Roarke’s mouth twitches in what might be amusement. “Dragons aren’t lizards.”

“NOT THE POINT,” I shriek, though I’m still cradling the creature with embarrassing gentleness.

It’s nuzzling against my palm now, making tiny chirping sounds that squeeze something in my chest. “I’m not qualified for this.

There has to be some kind of dragon adoption agency.

Dragon foster care. Dragon boarding school. ”

“There isn’t,” Roarke says, stepping closer. He reaches out one massive hand, carefully extending a single clawed finger toward the hatchling. The tiny dragon sniffs it, then immediately turns back to me, pressing its warm little body against my wrist. “It’s chosen you.”

“But why?” I’m not panicking. I’m just expressing reasonable concerns at a slightly elevated volume. “I’m a disaster. You know I’m a disaster. You’ve witnessed my disaster-ness firsthand.”

Roarke’s golden eyes meet mine, surprisingly soft. “Dragons see differently than we do. They sense essence. Core truths.”

The tiny dragon chirps again, then hiccups. A small puff of smoke emerges from its nostrils, dissipating harmlessly in the air. It looks as surprised as I feel, its eyes widening comically.

And just like that, I’m done for.

“Nugget,” I say, the name emerging from nowhere. “Its name is Nugget.”

Roarke raises an eyebrow. “You’re naming a rare, magical apex predator Nugget?”

“Yes,” I say defensively, already bonding with the warm weight in my hands. “Look at him. He’s literally a nugget-sized dragon.”

“Nugget,” Roarke repeats flatly.

I roll my eyes. “You not approving of his name is not important right now. What is important is that I am now apparently responsible for a baby dragon named Nugget, and I have absolutely no idea what to do next.”

Nugget chirps again, then yawns, revealing tiny, needle-sharp teeth. His eyes—which had been fixed on me with unnerving intensity—begin to droop closed. Within seconds, he’s fast asleep in my palms, his tail still wrapped securely around my wrist.

“What do I do?” I whisper, suddenly terrified of waking him.

Roarke steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. His comforting scent that always reminds me of a cashmere blanket wraps around me, making me calm and cozy.

“First,” he says quietly, “we check if your bread is burning.”

My eyes widen in horror. “The pandesal!”

I start to move, then freeze, looking down at the sleeping dragon in my hands. Roarke gently takes Nugget from me, his massive hands dwarfing the tiny creature. The dragon stirs briefly, then settles again, apparently accepting this substitute.

“Go,” he says. “I’ve got him.”

I race to the kitchen, yanking open the oven door just in time to save my bread from becoming charcoal.

The pandesal is a deep golden brown—not burned, just on the edge of perfect.

I set the tray on the cooling rack and lean against the counter, suddenly overwhelmed by everything that’s just happened.

I have a dragon. A real, actual dragon. Named Nugget. And he thinks I’m his mother.

When Roarke appears in the kitchen doorway, tiny dragon still cradled in his massive hands, I start laughing. I can’t help it. The absurdity of my life has reached new heights.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, tilting his head slightly.

I gesture vaguely at everything—the kitchen, the bread, the sleeping dragon, him. “This is my life now. I left corporate America to raise chickens and dragons with a lion-man veterinarian in a town that isn’t on most maps. My lola would lose her mind.”

Roarke’s expression softens into something close to a smile. “In a good way?”

I consider this, looking at the tiny dragon sleeping peacefully in his hands. At the golden bread cooling on my racks. At the jars of vibrant ube jam lined up on my counter. At the home I’ve created, messy and chaotic and absolutely mine.

“Yeah,” I say softly. “In the best way.”