Page 2 of Purring for Her Lion (Harmony Glen #5)

ROARKE

Her scent cuts through the stillness of my morning routine, demanding attention. Sweet like bread and milk, laced with panic and frustration.

Bare feet slap against damp earth, mingling with frantic chicken clucks and a woman’s voice cursing in two languages.

I freeze, coffee mug halfway to my lips, tail going still. I knew the three weeks of blessed silence had to end. My neighbor’s multiple ongoing projects have been building to something like this.

I should ignore it. I have patients in an hour. Instead, I set down my mug and move toward the commotion.

The sounds get louder as I approach the edge of my property. Frantic feet on earth, indignant poultry squawking, and that voice—loud enough to wake hibernating bears three mountains over.

I reach the tree line just in time to see my new neighbor faceplant into a patch of clover while lunging for a speckled brown chicken. The bird sidesteps with insulting ease, and she sprawls forward with a string of curses that would make veteran soldiers blush.

I cross my arms, lean against an old oak, and watch.

She’s a disaster. Wild dark hair escaping what might have once been a bun, an oversized t-shirt declaring her “HOMESTEAD QUEEN” in garish letters, bare legs smudged with dirt, absolutely no strategy as she chases her flock in frenzied circles.

Her scent is stronger now—flour and sugar and sweat and determination.

One particularly smug red chicken struts past her, just out of reach, and she makes a sound between a growl and whimper that makes my ear twitch.

“Come on, Chestnut, you feathery little traitor. We had a deal. I feed you organic feed that costs more than my coffee habit, and you stay in your stupid coop.”

The chicken—Chestnut, apparently—ignores this appeal and continues exploring my property, pecking near my feet, completely unconcerned.

I should walk away. This isn’t my problem. I’ve spent three years carefully constructing a life of minimal interaction and maximum solitude. Getting involved with this woman’s obvious chaos would be counterproductive.

And yet I remain rooted, watching as she makes another desperate lunge, this time for a white chicken that evades her with a flutter of wings. She lands on her knees, huffing out a frustrated breath, blowing a strand of hair from her face.

“I swear to every ancestor I have, when I catch you—” She freezes mid-threat, finally noticing me.

Our eyes lock.

Her mouth falls open slightly. I can see the exact moment recognition hits—not of me specifically, but of what I am. Her pupils dilate, pulse visibly quickening at her throat, and she swallows hard. Her anxiety spikes, sharp and tangy, cutting through the sweeter notes.

But there’s no fear. Just surprise and something else that makes my fur stand on end.

I say nothing. Don’t move. Just watch, keeping my face neutral.

Her expression cycles through shock, embarrassment, resignation, determination, and finally a strained attempt at casual greeting.

“Oh. Hi. I—uh—so funny story.”

I continue staring, unblinking. My tail flicks once, the only tell of my mild irritation.

She pushes hair back from her face, inadvertently smudging dirt across her cheek. The motion releases more of her scent—warm skin and something yeasty, like she’s been baking.

“I live next door.” She gestures toward her property as if I might have missed the human woman who moved into the abandoned Mercer place three weeks ago. As if the entire town hasn’t been talking about her. As if I haven’t been carefully avoiding her during supply runs.

“This is my first morning with the chickens, and I had a plan, I really did?—”

The white chicken chooses this moment to flap frantically toward the pond. She whirls around, nearly losing her balance.

“Buttercup! Get back here right now!”

I exhale slowly through my nose, patience wearing thin. This is getting ridiculous.

I step forward, movements fluid and deliberate. Years of military training and hunting instincts take over.

I don’t run or lunge. I simply move with purpose, using my size and presence to guide the chickens. I angle my body to block escape routes, herd the birds with subtle pressure, and within seconds, all seven chickens are clustered near the woman’s feet.

She stares at me, chest heaving, eyes wide and dazed. A flush creeps up her neck, coloring her cheeks. The scent of her surprise is almost pleasant.

“Did you just—what the hell? Are you some kind of chicken whisperer?”

I ignore the question and look pointedly at the birds, then back at her. “Your fencing is weak. Predators will get in.”

She blinks rapidly, processing both my words and the fact that I spoke. Then her chin lifts defensively.

“It’s a temporary setup. I was going to reinforce it. Eventually.”

I lift a single eyebrow.

It’s a bad lie. She knows it. I know it. Even the chickens probably know it.

Tension stretches between us. Her heart rate hasn’t slowed—if anything, it’s faster. Her scent has shifted, embarrassment giving way to something more complex.

I don’t say anything. I just turn and start walking toward her property, toward the source of the problem.

“What are you doing?”

“Fixing it.”

“Wait—now?”

I don’t answer or slow down. I can hear her scrambling to gather chickens, cursing under her breath as she follows.

I reach her property line and take in the full scope of disaster she calls a chicken coop.

The structure isn’t terrible—basic but functional.

But the fencing is a joke. Gaps large enough for a fox to walk through sideways.

Support posts barely sunk into the ground.

Wire attached with what appears to be duct tape.

My ears flatten in disgust.

I kneel and get to work, extending my claws to secure loose sections. Behind me, I hear her approaching, breathing still uneven.

“You don’t have to do this. I mean, it’s really nice, but I’m sure you have important lion-man things to do.”

I don’t dignify that with a response, continuing to methodically reinforce her fence, aware of her shifting from foot to foot.

“So you’re like an expert on chicken housing?”

I huff quietly. “No.”

“Then how do you know so much?”

I glance up, deadpan. “Because I know how to stop things from getting eaten.”

Her eyes widen, and she opens her mouth, then closes it. For a blessed moment, she’s silent.

It doesn’t last.

“You’re really quiet,” she says, crouching beside me, close enough that her scent envelops me completely.

I secure the last plank, claws making short work of the task. “You’re really loud.”

She gasps, pressing a hand to her chest in mock offense. “That was almost a joke. Are you capable of humor?”

I don’t answer. But as I stand, dusting off my hands, I catch the way her lips curve into a grin. There’s something almost infectious about her energy. It’s annoying.

“I’m Liana, by the way. Liana Reyes.”

I look at her extended hand before taking it. Her fingers are small and soft against my palm, warm and fragile. I release her quickly.

“Roarke.”

“Roarke. That’s a cool name. Very strong. Suits you.”

I grunt noncommittally.

“So, thank you. For the chicken wrangling and fence fixing. I guess I owe you.”

I shake my head once. “No.”

“No? But you just fixed?—”

“Better fencing means fewer loose chickens. Fewer loose chickens means less noise. Less noise is payment enough.”

She laughs, the sound bright and unexpected, making my ear twitch. “So this was entirely self-serving?”

I shrug. “Yes.”

“I don’t believe you. I think you’re secretly nice.”

I snort. No one has ever accused me of that before. “Think whatever you want.”

The silence between us shifts and becomes almost comfortable. She rocks back on her heels, looking at me with curious eyes.

“Well, neighbor Roarke, since you’ve already seen me at my absolute worst, maybe we can only go up from here? Like, next time we meet, I promise to be wearing actual clothes and not screaming at poultry.”

I allow the corner of my mouth to quirk up, just slightly. “Setting a high bar.”

Her laugh comes again, fuller this time, and something in my chest tightens unexpectedly.

Trouble. That’s what she is. I can already tell.

I nod once, then turn to leave. I’ve spent more time talking to this human than I have to anyone in weeks. It’s enough social interaction to last me a month.

“Hey,” she calls after me. “Thanks again. Really.”

I glance back, taking in the full picture of her—wild-haired, dirt-smudged, genuine—standing before her now-secure chicken coop. For just a moment, I allow myself to appreciate the strange, chaotic energy she brings to this quiet corner of the world.

Then I turn away without a word, heading back to my property, my routine, my carefully ordered solitude.

Except now there’s a crack in it. Small but undeniable.

Like a chicken slipping through a poorly constructed fence.