Page 20 of Purring for Her Lion (Harmony Glen #5)

I sauté the garlic until golden, add the ginger and onions until the kitchen fills with their fragrance.

The chicken goes in next, browning slightly before I add the rice, stirring to coat each grain in the flavorful oil.

Water, fish sauce, a precise amount of salt.

Then the lid goes on, and the mixture simmers, the scent growing richer by the minute.

While it cooks, I return to check on Liana. She’s still sleeping, though less peacefully now. Her face is flushed, her breathing labored. The fever hasn’t broken yet. I replace the cloth on her forehead with a fresh, cool one, and she murmurs something unintelligible, leaning into the touch.

Nugget watches me with those intelligent amber eyes, his head tilted in a question I can somehow understand.

“She’ll be fine,” I tell him quietly. “It’s just a summer cold. Likely brought on by exhaustion.”

He makes a soft sound that might be agreement, might be concern. His tail curls protectively around the base of the bed.

“The medicine will help,” I continue, not entirely sure why I’m explaining human medicine to a dragon. “And rest. And food.”

I return to the kitchen to finish the arroz caldo, adding a final squeeze of calamansi juice and chopping fresh scallions for garnish. The result looks correct based on the cookbook’s photographs and smells intensely aromatic—ginger, garlic, the savory depth of properly cooked chicken.

When I return to the bedroom with a tray, Liana is stirring, perhaps roused by the scent of food. Nugget immediately perks up, his nostrils flaring as he scents the air, but he stays in his place, understanding this meal isn’t for him.

She wakes again when I bring the bowl to her bedside. Her eyes open slowly, still hazy with sleep, and she blinks up at me like she’s not sure if I’m real.

“... Roarke?”

“Eat.” I set the tray down.

She blinks again. Then her gaze drops to the steaming bowl of arroz caldo, and her expression softens.

“You made this?” she murmurs.

I grunt. “Eat.”

Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t argue. She pushes herself up, and I immediately reach out, steadying her with a hand on her back. She’s so warm. I can feel the heat of her skin through the fabric of her thin shirt. I force myself to let go.

She doesn’t seem to notice, too focused on lifting the spoon to her lips. She inhales sharply at the first taste, her eyes fluttering closed.

“Oh my gods,” she breathes. “This is amazing.”

I huff. “It’s just food.”

She hums, content. “No, it’s magic.”

But then—she stills. Her expression shifts—not bad, not displeased, just distant .

I frown. “Is it wrong?”

She swallows, slowly, then shakes her head. “No.” Her voice is softer now, wistful. “It’s perfect.”

I wait.

And then, quietly, almost too quietly: “My dad used to make it just like this.”

Something in me tightens. I know about her father. She doesn’t talk about it much, but I know his death was hard on her.

I say nothing. But I sit. I wait.

She takes another bite, looking down at the bowl like it holds something more than just food. Like it holds a memory she doesn’t want to lose.

For a while, we don’t speak. She eats, and I let her. And when she’s done, I take the tray and set it aside.

Her eyes glow with amusement, even as exhaustion pulls at her expression. “You’re really committed to this whole vet thing, huh?” she teases, her voice soft, raspy. “Taking care of wild animals that meander onto your property.”

I study her for a long moment. Then I say, quiet and certain: “I take care of what’s mine.”

She freezes. I see it—the slight hitch in her breath, the flicker of surprise in her gaze.

I should have kept that to myself. But I don’t regret it.

Because it’s true. She’s not just some neighbor anymore.

Not just some inconvenient city girl trying to homestead.

She’s in my space, in my thoughts, in my routines.

She’s mine. Even if she doesn’t realize it yet. Even if she’s not ready to hear it.

She swallows, slowly. Then—because she always covers emotions with humor—“Oh?” Her lips curve, teasing. “So, what, I’m part of your herd now?”

I tilt my head, considering. “Maybe.”

Her eyes widen. “Wait. Was that...was that almost a joke?”

I stand, gathering the tray. “Sleep.”

Liana stares after me, suspicious. But she doesn’t argue. She just sinks deeper into the blankets, watching me with something soft and unreadable in her gaze.

I leave the room before she can say anything else.

When I return an hour later, after checking on her chickens and preparing more medication, I find her fast asleep again.

But she’s not alone. Nugget has somehow—despite my explicit instructions about staying on the floor—managed to wedge himself onto the bed.

He’s curled in a tight ball of blue scales between her arms, his head tucked under her chin, her hand resting protectively on his neck even in sleep.

They look ridiculous. A full-grown woman and a dragon the size of a large dog crammed onto a bed built for someone twice my size, leaving most of the mattress empty. Impractical. Inefficient. The dragon is probably too warm for someone with a fever. He’ll likely knock something over when he wakes.

I should move him.

I don’t.

Instead, I stand in the doorway, watching them breathe in synchronized rhythm, and feel something settle in my chest. A certainty. A rightness. This is how it should be. Them here, in my home. Safe. Protected. Mine to care for.

I close the door quietly and leave them to their rest.