Page 18 of Purring for Her Lion (Harmony Glen #5)
“No, I don’t have better things to do.” He returns to his cooking, adding the vegetables to the pan where they sizzle loudly. “And no, I don’t want to go on vacation or dates.”
I swallow hard, watching his back as he stirs the food. “I just...I feel guilty. Like I’m taking advantage of you. Of your time and your space and your everything.”
The kitchen fills with the delicious aroma of garlic and ginger and whatever magical spice blend he’s using. Nugget settles at my feet, his warmth seeping through my socks as he curls into a surprisingly compact ball for a creature his size.
“We’re having beef kaldereta,” Roarke says instead of addressing my concerns, plating the rice he’s apparently also made without my noticing. “Your recipe. You left the cookbook open to that page last week.”
I blink at the abrupt change of subject. “You made kaldereta? From a Filipino cookbook?”
“From your amended cookbook.” He sets two plates on the table, then adds a third on the floor for Nugget, who immediately perks up. “More bay leaf. Less tomato paste.”
He’s made kaldereta. My version of it. One of my comfort dishes that reminded me of family get-togethers since most of my aunties almost always bring their own version.
He noticed the cookbook, interpreted it as a craving rather than just me haphazardly leaving things open, and then he made it. With my written-in adjustments.
“You made this with my recipe,” I sputter, though I’m already picking up my spoon.
“Try it first,” he says, taking his seat across from me. “I might have missed a step or two.”
I take a bite, knowing that the universe would collapse before he missed anything of the sort.
I brace myself, but am still unprepared. The flavors that hit my tongue are perfect. The beef is tender, falling apart at the slightest pressure. The sauce is rich and complex, with just the right balance of sour and savory. It’s my version of my lola’s kaldereta, but somehow…even more.
“Well?” he prompts, watching me with those intense eyes.
“It’s terrible,” I lie, taking another large bite. “Absolutely awful. The worst kaldereta I’ve ever had. I might need to eat all of it just to spare you the embarrassment.” I heap perfectly prepared basmati rice onto my plate and drown it in kaldereta.
The corner of his mouth twitches again. “Noted.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds being Nugget’s appreciative rumbles as he devours his portion. I find myself sneaking glances at Roarke, at the easy way he sits in my kitchen, as if he belongs here. As if we’ve been doing this for years instead of months.
And maybe that’s what scares me. How easy it’s been. How natural it feels. How quickly I’ve grown accustomed to his presence in my life, in my home, in my daily routine. How much I’ve come to depend on him, to expect him, to want him around.
“I’m serious though,” I say finally, setting down my fork.
“I appreciate everything you’ve done—the renovations, taking care of Nugget, letting me crash at your place.
But I feel like I’m, I don’t know, hijacking your life.
This can’t be what you signed up for when you agreed to help with a dragon egg. ”
Roarke regards me steadily, his expression unreadable. “What makes you think I’m not exactly where I want to be?”
The question hangs between us, heavy with implications I’m not sure I’m ready to face. Because of course, Roarke goes where he wants to go. No on tells that man what to do anything.
My heart does that stupid fluttery thing that happens whenever he says something unexpectedly direct.
“Because nobody wants this much chaos in their life voluntarily,” I say, gesturing vaguely to myself, to Nugget, to the general disaster zone that is my existence. “Nobody signs up for sleep-deprived humans and teething dragons and possible midnight fire drills.”
“I did,” he says, his voice low and certain. “I already told you. I’m territorial about you. Has sleep deprivation affected your memory?”
His tone is dead serious, but I’ve gotten used to his dry humor.
I remember that day at the hardware store, the way he said those exact words after scaring off the friendly fox-man. I’d thought it was just a moment, just a flare of whatever instinctual protectiveness his species feels. I hadn’t realized he meant it as a permanent state of affairs.
“That was weels ago,” I say weakly. “People change their minds.”
A long silence stretches between us, during which Roarke continues eating his kaldereta with maddening calm while I sit there having an internal meltdown.
“Liana,” he finally says, my name rumbling from his chest in a way that sends shivers down my spine, “I claimed you as mine to protect. The sooner you accept that as fact, the less anxious you’ll be.”
And then—then!—the man has the absolute gall to continue eating as if he hasn’t just dropped an emotional bomb directly on my head. As if he hasn’t just casually confirmed that yes, he has intentionally inserted himself into every aspect of my life, and no, he has no plans to leave.
I sit there, spoon suspended halfway to my mouth, too stunned to speak. Too stunned to think. Too stunned to do anything but stare at him as he methodically works his way through the rest of his dinner.
“Are you finished?” he asks after a moment, nodding toward my half-eaten plate.
When I don’t answer—because hello, still processing the whole “claimed you as mine” situation—he simply reaches over and hoists the serving bowl half full of beef kaldereta, pouring it atop the mountain of rice on his own plate with efficient movements.
“There’s more on the stove if you’re still hungry later,” he informs me, as if that’s the relevant information I need right now. “And I’ve already portioned the extras into storage containers for tomorrow.”
Of course he has. Because apparently, he’s not just territorial about me in some abstract, theoretical way. He’s territorial about me in the most practical, mundane, everyday ways possible. He’s territorial about my food storage. My bathroom products. My sleeping arrangements. My house renovations.
My life.
And the most terrifying part? I think I like it.