Page 28 of Purring for Her Lion (Harmony Glen #5)

LIANA

The hot chocolate burns a path down my throat, sweet and comforting as I curl my fingers around the mug.

Morning air kisses my skin, cool enough to raise goosebumps along my bare arms, but I don’t move. The sunrise spills gold across the fields, turning my little farm into something magical, something that still doesn’t feel quite real.

Three months ago, I was squeezing into crowded subway cars and dreaming of escape. Now I’m here—dirt under my fingernails, muscles aching in ways I never knew possible, and a seven-foot-tall alien veterinarian who growls more than he speaks sleeping in my bed.

At least, I thought he was sleeping.

I take another slow sip, letting the warmth spread through me as I drink in the view.

My land—my actual land—stretches out before me, bathed in the soft pinks and burning golds of dawn.

The chicken coop sits off to the right, where my ridiculous flock is probably still sleeping, huddled around the baby dragon who’s decided they’re his personal heated pillows.

The vegetable garden I’ve painstakingly cultivated is starting to show real promise, and beyond that, the goat pen that I never planned for but somehow acquired anyway.

Just like I never planned for Roarke.

A laugh bubbles up in my chest, quiet and private.

If someone had told me a year ago that I’d be living on a small farm with a lion-man alien who fixes my fences without asking and glares at delivery people like they’re potential assassins, I would have had them committed. Yet here I am. Here we are.

The wooden boards of the porch creak beneath my bare feet as I shift my weight. I’m still getting used to this—the quiet, the space, the sense that I can breathe fully without bumping into someone else’s life. The city never sleeps, never pauses. But here, time stretches like honey, sweet and slow.

Movement in the goat pen catches my eye. Roarke. Of course he’s up early. Of course he’s already working. Of course he’s shirtless.

I don’t mean to stare, but...goddamn.

Golden fur catches the morning light, making him glow as he moves with that controlled power that never fails to make my stomach clench.

His mane—that’s what I call it, though he insists it’s just “hair”—is pulled back in a tight braid that trails between his shoulder blades.

Scars crisscross his back, silvery lines against the tawny fur that I’ve traced with my fingertips in the dark.

He doesn’t talk about them. Doesn’t talk about much, really.

But his body speaks volumes.

He bends to fill the feed trough, muscles rippling beneath fur, and my mouth goes dry.

His tail flicks behind him—a sure sign he’s concentrating—and I remember how that tail feels wrapped around my waist, my thigh, my ankle.

How he uses it to pull me closer when he thinks I’m too far away, which is basically any time I’m not touching him.

One of the baby goats—the black one with the white splash on her face—headbutts his knee. Anyone else would stumble. Roarke doesn’t even shift his weight. He just reaches down with one massive hand and scratches between her ears, those deadly claws gentle against her fuzzy head.

That’s Roarke in a nutshell. Terrifying power, infinite gentleness.

I take another sip of hot chocolate, not even pretending I’m doing anything but watching him now.

The way his ears flick back when the mother goat gets too close.

The careful precision of his movements, like he’s always aware of his size, his strength.

The set of his shoulders that I’ve learned to read like a book—relaxed now, not carrying the tension that sometimes grips him when he wakes from nightmares he won’t describe.

“Are you just going to stand there staring at me all morning?” His deep voice carries across the yard, though he hasn’t turned around.

Heat rushes to my face. Busted. “I was not staring.”

He turns slowly, those golden eyes finding mine unerringly. The rising sun catches in them, turning them to amber fire. His expression is unreadable to most, but I’ve learned to see the subtle shifts—the slight quirk at the corner of his mouth, the barely-there lift of one eyebrow. He’s amused.

“Right.” The word rumbles from his chest, a single syllable packed with disbelief.

He finishes with the goats, latching the feed container with careful precision.

Everything Roarke does is precise. Deliberate.

When he starts toward the porch, my heart kicks up a notch.

It’s ridiculous. We live together. We sleep together.

I’ve seen every inch of him, touched every scar.

Yet watching him walk toward me still makes my pulse stutter.

His steps are unhurried, powerful, the grace of a predator who’s never needed to rush. His presence is too large, too steady, too much. He fills my vision, my space, my life in a way that should be overwhelming but somehow just feels right.

I clear my throat, pretending I’m not warm all over. “You’re up early. Couldn’t sleep?”

He stops in front of me, so close I have to tilt my head back to look at him. Seven feet of solid muscle and barely contained power, yet I’ve never once felt afraid. Not of him.

“You weren’t in bed when I woke up.” His voice is soft, but there’s an undercurrent there. Concern, maybe. Or something more possessive.

My breath catches. We’re still adjusting to this—to sharing a space, sharing a life.

The transition from neighbors to lovers to more happened so naturally I barely noticed until he was simply there, part of my days and nights like he’d always been.

Roarke has always been a protector, a caretaker, a man of few words but steady actions.

He doesn’t waste breath on unnecessary things, which makes the words he does choose matter more.

“I wanted to watch the sunrise.” I lift my mug. “And I made hot chocolate.”

His nose twitches, scenting the air. “I smelled it.”

Of course he did. His senses are sharper than mine—another alien trait that sometimes leaves me feeling distinctly human in comparison.

Not that I mind. I like our differences.

I like the rumble in his chest when he’s pleased.

I like the way his eyes change in the dark, pupils expanding to see what I can’t.

I like that his body temperature runs hotter than mine, making him the perfect heater on cold nights.

I like him. All of him.

He never says much, but I see the way he claims me, in all the little things he does. The fence he mended without being asked. The predator tracks he checks for around the property line. The way he stocks my favorite tea even though he thinks it smells like wet grass.

Like now—when he lifts a clawed hand and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers brushing my cheek, gentle despite his size. His palm is rough with calluses, warm against my skin. I lean into his touch without thinking, a moth to flame.

“Come back inside,” he murmurs, his voice deep and gruff. “It’s cold.”

I glance down at my thin pajama top and shorts. He’s not wrong. The morning air has left goosebumps across my skin, though I suspect they’re not entirely due to the temperature.

A slow smile tugs at my lips. “You just want me in bed again, don’t you?”

Roarke doesn’t deny it. He just makes a low, rumbling sound in his chest—not quite a growl, not quite a laugh—and wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me into his warmth.

His fur is soft against my bare arms, his body solid and real.

I let myself melt into him, resting my head against his chest, listening to the steady, grounding sound of his heartbeat.

“Maybe,” he admits, his breath stirring my hair. “Is that a problem?”

I shake my head, rubbing my cheek against his fur. “Not even a little bit.”

His hand slides up my back, cradling the nape of my neck with a gentleness that still surprises me. Those claws that can gut a predator threatening my chickens now trace delicate patterns on my skin, raising shivers that have nothing to do with cold.

“You should wear more clothes if you’re going to be outside.” His tone is matter-of-fact, but I hear the concern underneath.

“Why? So I don’t catch cold, or so the delivery guy doesn’t see me in my pajamas again?” I tease, remembering how Roarke had practically herded me inside last week when the package truck arrived while I was watering plants in a tank top.

His eyes narrow slightly. “Both.”

I laugh, the sound bright in the morning air. “You’re ridiculous. No one can even see the house from the road.”

“I can see you,” he points out, as if that’s all that matters. Maybe it is.

I reach up, tracing the line of his jaw with my fingers, feeling the slight scratch of shorter fur there. “I like when you see me.”

His pupils dilate slightly, the golden irises darkening. I know that look. It sends heat pooling low in my belly, a wanting that never seems to fully ebb when he’s near.

“Liana.” Just my name, but the way he says it—like a prayer, like a promise—makes my knees weak.

I set my mug down on the porch railing, freeing both hands to slide up his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath my palm.

His fur is softer here, finer, and I know if I press my face to it, he’ll smell like pine and something uniquely him, something wild and clean that I’ve come to associate with safety.

“The hot chocolate can wait,” I murmur, rising on tiptoes.

He makes that sound again, the not-quite-growl that vibrates through his chest and into mine where we’re pressed together. Then his mouth is on mine, and thinking becomes secondary to feeling.

Roarke kisses like he does everything else—thoroughly, deliberately, with an intensity that steals my breath. His lips are firmer than a human’s, but no less gentle. When his tongue slides against mine, I make a small, needy sound that would embarrass me with anyone else.

With him, I don’t hold back. There’s no point. He can smell my arousal, hear my heartbeat quicken. I’m an open book to his senses.

His hands tighten on me, one at my waist, one cradling my head, keeping me exactly where he wants me. As if I’d be anywhere else. As if I’d ever want to escape this.

When he pulls back, just enough for me to breathe, his eyes have gone entirely gold, the pupils vertical slits in the brightening day.

Animal eyes. Predator eyes. They should frighten me.

Instead, they make me feel powerful, special.

I’m the one who does this to him, who makes his careful control slip.

“Inside,” he says, and it’s not a request.

I smile, slow and deliberate, enjoying the way his gaze tracks the movement of my lips. “Bossy.”

“Yes.” No apology, no explanation. Just Roarke, direct as always.

I laugh again, and his expression softens slightly. He loves my laugh. He’s never said so—Roarke isn’t big on declarations—but I catch the way his ears perk forward when I’m happy, the subtle relaxing of his shoulders.

He bends suddenly, scooping me up like I weigh nothing. I yelp in surprise, wrapping my arms around his neck.

“I can walk, you know,” I protest, though there’s no heat in it.

“Slower.” He starts toward the door, carrying me easily. “This is more efficient.”

“Efficient, huh?” I tug gently on his braid. “That’s what we’re calling it now?”

His lips twitch, the closest he usually comes to a smile. “Among other things.”

As he carries me inside, over the threshold like some fairy tale princess, I’m struck again by the strangeness of my life.

The beautiful, unexpected, perfect strangeness of it all.

A year ago, I was miserable in a cramped apartment, drowning in student debt and unfulfilled dreams. Now I have dirt under my nails, chickens with attitude problems, and a man who looks like he could tear apart mountains holding me like I’m made of glass.

Roarke nudges the door closed behind us with his foot, the morning sunlight now filtering through the windows instead. The house is quiet, peaceful, smelling of the bread I baked yesterday.

He doesn’t head for the bedroom, though. Instead, he settles on the couch, arranging me in his lap so I’m cradled against his chest. His tail curls around my ankle, a casual possessiveness that makes me smile.

“I thought you wanted to go back to bed,” I say, raising an eyebrow.

“I wanted you inside.” He tucks my head under his chin. “Where it’s warm.”

My heart swells, too full suddenly. This is Roarke—fierce protector, man of few words, secret softie. He’d face down any threat without blinking, but he worries about me getting chilled in the morning air.

I press a kiss to his throat, feeling his pulse jump beneath my lips. “Thank you for caring.”

His arms tighten around me. “I always will.”

Three simple words, but from Roarke, they might as well be poetry. I close my eyes, breathing him in, letting myself be held. His chest rises and falls steadily beneath me, his warmth seeping into my bones.

Yes. This is home. Home is here, in these arms, with this impossible, wonderful creature who let me crash into his life and accepted my chaos into his order.

Home is where the lion is.

Thank you for reading Purring for Her Lion.