Page 15 of Purring for Her Lion (Harmony Glen #5)

ROARKE

Nugget has doubled in size in a week. This isn’t an exaggeration or one of Liana’s colorful metaphors—it’s a clinical fact.

Seven days ago, he was the size of a football, all awkward wings and oversized head.

Now he’s roughly the dimensions of a young goat, with scales that catch the morning light like polished sapphires and a tail that can knock over a chair when he gets excited. At this rate of growth, he’ll be horse-sized within two months.

The implications of this are not lost on me as I watch him prancing around Liana’s chicken coop, playing some incomprehensible game with Chestnut that involves a lot of chirping, clucking, and what appears to be a mutual grooming ritual that should not be biologically possible.

“They’ve been doing this for hours,” Liana says, appearing beside me with a mug of coffee clutched in both hands.

There are dark circles under her eyes, flour dusting her left shoulder, and a streak of what might be ube jam in her hair.

She looks exhausted but delighted. “Chestnut has officially adopted him. She keeps trying to teach him how to scratch for bugs.”

I grunt noncommittally, watching as the dragon—who could easily swallow Chestnut whole at this point—delicately mimics the chicken’s movements, scratching at the dirt with his front claws, then cocking his head at precisely the same angle.

“Dragons are solitary creatures,” I say, because it’s true. It’s in every text I’ve studied. “They don’t form pack bonds.”

Liana gives me a look that somehow manages to be both tired and smug. “Tell that to Nugget.”

I can’t argue with the evidence before me. Nugget is currently letting Buttercup, the smallest of the hens, perch on his back while he carefully navigates the chicken run. It defies everything I know about dragon behavior. But then, everything about this situation does.

“You need sleep,” I observe, noting the way she sways slightly on her feet. “And Nugget needs more space.”

“I know, I know.” She sighs, rubbing her eyes with one hand.

“I was up all night with him. He kept trying to climb into bed with me, but he’s already too big, and then he knocked over my nightstand trying to fit, and then he got upset and set my curtains on fire.

” She says this with the casual tone of someone describing a mild inconvenience, not a potential house fire.

“I put it out with the extinguisher you made me keep by the bed.”

My claws extend slightly at the thought of her alone with a distressed, fire-breathing creature, but I retract them before she notices. “Good.”

“And yes, I know he needs more space,” she continues, gesturing at her modestly-sized farmhouse. “But I don’t exactly have a dragon wing I can add to the house.”

She doesn’t, but I’ve been sketching plans all week.

Extensions, outbuildings, specialized containment areas that can expand as Nugget grows.

I’ve mapped it all out in precise detail, calculated materials, timeframes, costs.

I haven’t shown her yet because I know how she’ll react—insisting it’s too much, that she can figure something out on her own, that she doesn’t need my help. Stubborn woman.

“He can’t stay inside much longer,” I say instead of mentioning my plans. “Not safely.”

She nods, watching as Nugget successfully scratches up a worm and offers it to Chestnut with surprising gentleness. “I know. But he screams bloody murder if he can’t smell me nearby.”

Don’t I know it. The night I tried to keep him at my clinic was a disaster of epic proportions.

He screeched for hours, inconsolable without Liana’s scent.

Eventually, I had to wrap him in one of her flour-dusted aprons just to get him to stop making sounds that could probably be heard three towns over.

“We’ll figure something out,” I tell her, surprising myself with the “we.” But it is “we” now, isn’t it? Has been since the moment she found that egg.

She gives me a tired smile that does strange things to my insides. “Thanks. I don’t know what I’d do without your help. Probably be burned to a crisp by now.”

“Probably,” I agree, which makes her laugh despite her exhaustion.

I turn my attention back to the chickens and dragon, processing what I’m seeing against what I know about dragon behavior.

Dragons are apex predators. Solitary hunters.

Territorial and aggressive, especially when young and establishing boundaries.

And yet there’s Nugget, belly-down in the dirt, letting a group of chickens peck affectionately at his scales while he makes a contented rumbling sound that reminds me, disturbingly, of my own purr.

Just another way my certainties have been upended since meeting Liana.

“I have to go to Ogram’s,” she says, finishing her coffee. “I promised to bring samples of the ube jam and of course, all those crates of eggs.”

I eye her critically. “You need sleep more than Ogram needs jam and eggs.”

“Can’t I need sleep and Ogram need jam?” she counters, already moving toward the house. “Besides, tomorrow is Friday, and folks like to buy things for the weekend.”

I follow her inside, where the kitchen looks like a purple bomb has exploded. Every surface is covered with jars of vibrant jam, cooling racks of bread and pastries, and equipment in various states of use. The air smells like warm sugar, yeast, and something floral I can’t quite identify.

“When did you last sleep?” I ask, watching her move between tasks with the unsteady determination of someone running on fumes.

She shrugs, sealing another jar of jam. “I got a few hours last night. I think.”

“Not enough.”

“Nowhere near enough,” she agrees with a wry smile. “But Nugget needs constant attention, and the chickens need care, and the jam won’t make itself, and?—”

“I’ll watch Nugget tonight,” I cut in. “You sleep.”

She blinks at me, a strand of hair falling across her face. “But he won’t stay with you. He’ll just scream all night.”

“He’ll have to learn eventually.” The truth is, I’m not sure how I’ll manage it either, but seeing her this exhausted makes something in my chest tighten uncomfortably.

“We could try,” she says doubtfully, tucking the hair behind her ear. “Maybe if you took one of my shirts or something?—”

An idea forms. Not just for tonight, but for the larger problem. “What if you stayed at my place?”

Her eyes widen. “What?”

“My house is bigger,” I say, keeping my tone matter-of-fact. “More rooms. More space for Nugget. Better structural integrity if he decides to play with fire again.”

I don’t mention that I’ve already fireproofed my spare room in anticipation of this conversation.

Or that I’ve reorganized my kitchen to accommodate her baking experiments.

Or that I’ve sketched plans to connect our properties with a proper pathway that will eventually lead to the expanded dragon enclosure I’m planning to build.

One step at a time.

“Just until we figure out a better solution,” I add when she doesn’t immediately respond.

She looks around her chaotic kitchen, then out the window where Nugget is now attempting to roost with the chickens, his massive body comically dwarfing the entire structure.

“Just until we figure out something better,” she repeats slowly. “Okay. Yes. That makes sense.”

I nod, satisfied, and absolutely do not think about how my bed will smell like her afterward, or how my house will feel once she’s been in it, filling the spaces with her chaos and warmth.

“Tonight, then,” I say, already mentally cataloging what needs to be moved, secured, prepared.

“Tonight,” she agrees, and goes back to her jam, unaware that I’ve been planning this for days.

Nugget lets out a cheerful screech from outside, and we both turn to see him with all five chickens somehow balanced on his back, parading around the yard like he’s giving pony rides at a fair.

“You know,” Liana says, smiling despite her exhaustion, “for a solitary apex predator, he’s surprisingly good with roommates.”

I grunt, unwilling to concede the point verbally even as the evidence contradicts everything I thought I knew about dragons.

Just another way she’s changing what I thought were certainties.

Liana doesn’t even stir when I lift her from her kitchen chair. One minute, she’s talking about her plans, and the next, her eyes close and stay closed.

She’s been running on fumes for days, and her body has finally surrendered to exhaustion, going limp in my arms like a ragdoll.

I cradle her against my chest with one arm, her head tucked beneath my chin, while Nugget drapes across my opposite shoulder like an oversized, scaly cat. He makes a contented chirping sound, clearly pleased with this arrangement.

The walk to my house takes all of five minutes, but it feels significant—the first time I’ve carried her across this boundary, bringing her into my space not as a visitor but as someone who belongs there.

Nugget watches with curious eyes as I navigate the stairs to my bedroom, careful not to jostle Liana. She mumbles something unintelligible and presses her face against my fur, her breath warm against my neck. Something primal and protective tightens in my chest.

I lay her on my bed—a massive custom piece built to accommodate my size—and she immediately curls onto her side, one hand tucked beneath her cheek.

She looks impossibly small against my dark sheets, a study in contrasts: her soft curves against angular furniture, her chaotic energy temporarily stilled in my meticulously ordered space.

I pull the covers over her, and Nugget immediately tries to climb up beside her, but I catch him before he can wake her.

“Not now,” I tell him quietly. “She needs rest.”

He makes a disappointed sound, his amber eyes fixed on Liana’s sleeping form. This is the first time they’ve been separated since his hatching, and I can feel him tensing, preparing for one of his tantrums.