Page 26 of Purring for Her Lion (Harmony Glen #5)

The late afternoon sun spills across my property, painting the grass in golden light.

I’m showing Roarke my latest chicken coop expansion plans—complete with illustrations that definitely don’t look like they were drawn by a five-year-old with a crayon—when I notice he’s not looking at my meticulously crafted blueprint.

He’s looking at me with that expression, the one that means he’s made a decision about something and is just waiting for me to catch up to whatever conclusion he’s already reached.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask, squinting suspiciously. We’re standing near the northern edge of my property, where the land is open and untouched. The gentle slope offers a perfect view of both our properties and the mountains beyond.

He doesn’t answer immediately, just continues giving me that quietly intense stare, his golden eyes tracking my every movement as if I’m some fascinating new species he’s cataloging.

“Seriously, what? Do I have flour in my hair again?” I reach up self-consciously to check, though I haven’t baked anything since this morning’s sourdough experiment.

“No flour,” he says, his deep voice rumbling in that way that still makes my stomach flip. He turns to survey the open field before us, tail swishing thoughtfully behind him. “This space. It’s good.”

I follow his gaze, trying to see what he sees. It’s just land—beautiful land, sure, with those ancient oak trees providing natural shade and the slight elevation offering good drainage, but still just an empty field.

“Good for what?” I ask. “Another chicken run? Because I was thinking maybe closer to the house would be better for winter?—”

“This is where I’m building our house,” Roarke says, and I choke on air.

“Our—our house?” The words come out as a squeak.

“Yes.” He says it so matter-of-factly, as if he’s commenting on the weather rather than casually announcing a life-altering decision.

I stare at him, mouth working silently as my brain attempts to process this bombshell. Our house. Our. House. As in, a house for both of us. Together. Permanently.

“You just—you just decided that? Without asking me?” I finally manage, gesturing wildly at the field that’s apparently going to be the site of our shared future.

He tilts his head, regarding me with that infuriating calm. “Do I have to ask when it’s what you actually want?”

My mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. How the hell does he do that? Because a new house is what I wanted. In this exact space.

The thought of a house built for both of us, with spaces designed for my chaos and his order, with room for Nugget to grow and the chickens to roam... it makes something warm unfurl in my chest.

But still. The principle of the thing. “You can at least pretend.”

He kisses my forehead. “Noted for next time.”

“There better not be a next time,” I mutter. Finally, I cross my arms and huff. “Well. It better have a big kitchen.”

His lips twitch into that barely-there smile that I’ve learned to recognize as full-blown amusement. “Of course.”

“And a porch,” I add, warming to the idea despite my indignation. “A big wrap-around one with those rocking chairs I saw at Foxer Upper last week.”

“Obviously.” He takes a step closer, and I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.

“I’ve already drawn up the plans. Three bedrooms, two offices—one for you to destroy with creative chaos, one for me to maintain in reasonable order.

A kitchen twice the size of yours with an island and that double oven you keep sighing over in catalogs. ”

My jaw drops. “You’ve been planning this! For how long?”

“Actual designs? Since you told me you loved me,” he says simply.

That was barely a month ago. “Wait you said actual designs. What does that mean?”

“That I was envisioning a house here when I first took your sleep deprived self to sleep in my bed after Nugget hatched.”

I’m dumbfounded. Because what do you say to that? In typical Roarke fashion, he’s been silently plotting our future while I’ve been blissfully making bread and having mind-blowing sex, oblivious to his architectural machinations.

I should be annoyed. I should lecture him about communication and joint decision-making and all those things relationship books say are important. Instead, I find myself imagining mornings in that kitchen, afternoons on that porch, nights in a bedroom that belongs to both of us from the start.

I pause, shifting slightly, a flutter of vulnerability working its way through my chest. “And you’ll be there? Every night?”

His expression softens. He takes another step forward, one massive hand tilting my chin up so I have to meet his gaze. The tenderness there makes my breath catch.

“Yes,” he says, the word a promise and a vow wrapped into one syllable. He kisses me, slow and certain, sealing the promise between us. I melt into him, sighing against his lips, my arms wrapping around his waist.

When he pulls back, he murmurs, “Anything else?”

I pretend to think, though my mind is already racing with possibilities. “A Nugget-proof section. For when he gets big.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Done.”

“And a special coop for the chickens, with a heated floor for winter.”

“Already in the plans.”

“And maybe... maybe a room that could be, you know, for... later. If we ever wanted...” I trail off, feeling my face heat.

His eyes widen slightly, the only indication of surprise. Then something fierce and tender passes across his features. “For our cubs,” he says softly. “Yes. As many as you want.”

Cubs. The word makes my heart stutter. Little half-lion, half-human babies with his golden eyes and my tendency to talk too much when nervous. The image is so overwhelming that I have to press my face against his chest to hide the emotion welling up.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I mumble into his fur. “I was thinking maybe a guest room. Or a plant nursery.”

His chest rumbles with silent laughter. He’s not fooled, but he lets me have my deflection. His hand cups the back of my head, gentle and protective.

“You’re mine,” he reminds me, his voice a low, possessive growl that sends shivers down my spine.

I roll my eyes, but I don’t argue. Evidently, I need constant reminding, so I let him. Instead, I press my face harder against his chest, breathing in his scent of pine and musk and home.

“I know,” I whisper, and I do. I’m his, just as he’s mine. Just as this land is ours, and this future we’re building together.

I pull back to look up at him, a smile tugging at my lips. “So, when do we start? Because if you think I’m not going to have opinions about every single cabinet pull and light fixture, you clearly don’t know me very well.”

“Tomorrow,” he says, wrapping an arm around my waist as we turn to survey what will be our home. “And I’m counting on those opinions. All three hundred of them.”

“Minimum,” I warn him.

His tail curls possessively around my ankle, a gesture that’s become as familiar as breathing. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

We stand there as the sun begins to set, painting our future in shades of gold and promise.

I’ve spent my whole life running, searching for something I couldn’t name.

And now, against all odds, I’ve found it—here, in this strange magical town, with this grumpy, territorial lion-man who loves me exactly as I am.

Home. Not just a place, but a person. My person.