Page 19 of Purring for Her Lion (Harmony Glen #5)

ROARKE

Something’s wrong.

I know it the moment I near our property and I hear nothing. Usually, the chorus of chaos within Liana’s house rings clearly throughout the day. Chickens clucking, Liana’s off-key singing, and Nugget screeching along and following her lead.

But today there’s nothing. Just the heavy stillness of August heat pressing down on everything, and an absence where her chaos should be.

Without thought, I’m already moving toward her house with quickening steps, a knot forming in my chest that I refuse to call worry.

The chickens are quiet, too. No Chestnut strutting around the yard like she owns it. No Buttercup pecking at imagined threats. The coop door is closed, which is correct, practical, but unusual for this time of day when Liana typically lets them free-range before evening.

I let myself through the door and find Nugget curled up in the foyer, his ever-enlarging body tucked into a tight ball of sapphire scales aligned perfectly to the rug he laid upon.

His head lifts as I enter, amber eyes fixing on me with an expression that’s far too intelligent and concerned for a creature his age. He makes a soft, warbling sound—not his usual greeting of enthusiastic chirps and tail thumps.

“Where is she?” I ask him, not bothering to pretend I’m here for any other reason. I could scent her in the living room beyond, but it seemed a smarter strategy to let the guarding dragon lead me to her.

Nugget uncurls, stretching to his full height—nearly as tall as my waist now—and moves to the living room, his talons lightly tapping against the wood floor. His usual exuberance is muted, his movements careful, deliberate.

Just beyond, I glimpse the kitchen that should be in its usual state of creative chaos—flour dusting every surface, mixing bowls stacked precariously, the air thick with yeast and sugar.

Instead, it’s unnervingly tidy, just as I had left it this morning before I went to the clinic.

No dough rising on the counter. No ingredients scattered across the workspace. The oven is cold and dark.

I follow Nugget through the house, my senses cataloging details with growing concern.

No laptop open on the table, humming with half-finished work projects.

No music playing—she always has music, at the very least the Monster Tunes station streaming some relentless beat that follows her movements like an echo.

As expected, we find her in the living room, a blanket-wrapped mound on the couch despite the fact that her ancient air conditioning system is clearly struggling against the August heat.

Even from the doorway, I can hear the shallow, congested sound of her breathing.

Sick.

She’s sick.

I move to her side, kneeling to assess her condition with automatic precision.

Her skin is flushed with fever, dark circles prominent beneath her closed eyes.

Her hair clings to her forehead in damp strands, and when I press my palm against her cheek, the heat radiating from her skin makes my jaw clench.

“Liana,” I say, the word coming out rougher than intended.

She stirs, eyes fluttering open but not quite focusing. “Mmm?”

“You’re sick.”

“M’fine,” she mumbles, attempting to burrow deeper into her blanket cocoon. “Just tired. Deadline. For project. Client. Then, harvest festival display. Gotta finish…”

She trails off, eyes already closing again. Nugget whines softly, nudging her hand with his snout. She doesn’t respond.

I should have seen this coming. Should have prevented it. The signs were all there—the late nights, the manic energy as she prepared for the town’s harvest festival, juggling her remote work deadlines with her growing lineup of baked goods for the event.

She’s been running herself into the ground for weeks, and I’ve been letting her.

No. Not just letting her. Enabling her. Carrying her to bed when she collapses from exhaustion instead of making her rest properly. Watching her push herself past reasonable limits because her determination is one of the things I?—

I cut that thought off sharply. Not relevant to the current situation.

Nugget makes another concerned sound, his tail curling protectively around the couch.

He’s grown attached to her—more than attached.

Bonded in a way dragons typically don’t bond with anyone.

He reflects her emotions, responds to her needs, protects her with the same fierce dedication I’ve observed in myself.

Which is why he’s so subdued now. He can sense how truly unwell she is.

“She needs proper rest,” I tell him, as if he can understand the nuances of human health. Though with Nugget, I’m never entirely sure what he comprehends. “And medication. And fluids.”

And not to be alone in this too-hot house with its failing air conditioning and no one to make sure she actually stays in bed.

The decision forms with crystal clarity. I don’t bother debating it or considering alternatives. I simply act.

“We’re taking her home,” I inform Nugget, who immediately perks up, recognizing the word “home” and correctly interpreting my intentions.

I unwrap the blanket from Liana’s overheated body, setting it aside. She makes a small, protesting sound that tightens something in my chest.

“Too hot for blankets,” I tell her, sliding one arm beneath her knees and the other around her back. “You have a fever.”

“Cold,” she argues weakly, even as she instinctively turns toward my warmth when I lift her.

She weighs almost nothing in my arms, a fact that both satisfies some primal part of me and concerns the more rational portion of my brain. She’s lost weight recently, too focused on her projects to maintain proper nutrition.

Another failure on my part. I should have been paying closer attention.

“Nugget,” I say, and the dragon is immediately at attention, “get her keys.”

He moves with surprising delicacy for a creature his size, retrieving her key ring from the hook by the door and carefully carrying it in his mouth.

His intelligence continues to defy conventional understanding of dragon behavior—another way in which Liana has rewritten the rules simply by existing.

The walk to my house takes less than five minutes, but I’m acutely aware of every labored breath she takes, every degree of fever heat radiating through her thin t-shirt. Nugget trots beside us, unusually subdued, occasionally making soft chirping sounds of concern.

I carry her directly to my bedroom—her bedroom, really, given how often she sleeps there now.

The sheets still carry her scent from her last “overnight shift,” though they’ve been washed and changed since then.

I lower her carefully onto the mattress, and she immediately curls onto her side, seeking the coolness of the pillow.

“Stay,” I tell her, though she shows no signs of trying to get up.

Nugget settles on the floor beside the bed, his head resting on the edge of the mattress where he can keep watch over her. I leave them briefly to gather supplies—fever medication, water, a cool cloth for her forehead. When I return, her eyes are open again, though still unfocused.

“Why’m I at your place?” she asks, her voice raspy and weak.

“Your air conditioning is inadequate,” I tell her, which is true but not the complete truth. “And you need supervision.”

“I don’t need?—”

“Drink,” I interrupt, holding out the water glass with two pills. “Then sleep.”

She tries to argue but doesn’t have the energy for it. She takes the medication, drinks half the water, then sinks back into the pillows with a sigh that sounds far too content for someone running a significant fever.

“I need to check on my chickens,” she murmurs, eyes already closing.

“I’ll handle it,” I assure her. “Sleep now.”

She doesn’t need further convincing. Within moments, her breathing deepens, though it’s still congested and irregular. I place the cool cloth on her forehead, and she sighs softly, turning her face into the touch.

I stand there longer than necessary, watching her sleep, cataloging the signs of exhaustion evident in her face. The shadows beneath her eyes. The tension still visible in her forehead even in sleep. The slight furrow between her brows that I want to smooth away with my thumb.

This is my fault. I’ve let her work herself to illness.

Let her push beyond reasonable limits. I’ve been so focused on providing for her in physical ways—building structures, securing her property, ensuring her comfort—that I’ve neglected the most basic responsibility: making sure she takes care of herself.

I leave her reluctantly, with Nugget standing guard. There are things to do. Chickens to tend to. Medication to organize. And food—she needs proper nutrition to recover.

I find myself in my kitchen, swiping through my tablet. The bookmarked tabs for her favorite Filipino dishes are starred in a corner. Those are the ones I’ve been studying in secret, learning the dishes that bring her comfort, and keeping the necessary ingredients on hand.

The most recent tab opens automatically to a well-studied recipe: Arroz Caldo. Rice porridge with chicken, ginger, and garlic. A healing food, and a dish that I know is a personal favorite of hers.

Perfect.

I gather ingredients with methodical precision.

Chicken, already cleaned and portioned in my freezer.

Jasmine rice from the supply store I purchased specifically because it’s what she prefers.

Ginger, garlic, onions. Fish sauce. Calamansi juice that I special-ordered from a supplier in the next town over because I noticed it was listed in many of the recipes she favors.

My hands move with practiced efficiency, chopping, measuring, preparing. This is no different from following precise medical protocols. Measure twice, execute once. No wasted movements. No room for error.