Page 3 of Purring for Her Lion (Harmony Glen #5)

LIANA

Baking is a universal love language, isn’t it?

I stare at the tray of ube cheese pandesal cooling on my counter, the rolls perfectly golden, the scent of sweet, nutty purple yam thick in the kitchen.

Each roll hides a molten pocket of cheese.

Not just bread. A peace offering. For the massive, brooding lion-man next door who rescued me from chicken-mageddon.

Roarke fixed my coop like it was nothing.

Reinforcing fencing, herding frantic poultry, all casual for him.

Meanwhile, I couldn’t keep my chickens contained for a single day.

The memory of standing there in pajamas, filthy and sweaty, watching him fix everything with silent efficiency, makes my cheeks burn.

I pick up a roll, breathing in the buttery aroma.

Perfect. Lola’s recipe, honed over decades and delivered with stern warnings: never skimp on the butter.

The purple yam gives the bread its color, the cheese adds a savory punch.

The first recipe I ever mastered. Baking it reminds me I can do something right, if I just keep at it.

Like my dream of a little homestead. What starts as disaster can only improve.

I arrange the pandesal in a wicker basket lined with checkered cloth. I also threw in a few of my favorite dishes just in case he was anti-carb for some reason.

My god, what if he is?

Doesn’t matter, Liana. That’s why there are several options for him to choose from.

Is this too much? Too weird? What’s the etiquette for thanking your intimidating neighbor for chicken emergencies?

“Just be normal,” I mutter, tucking the cloth corners over the bread. “You’re bringing him bread. People do this.”

Do they? Is this normal neighbor behavior, or am I being extra?

I check the clock. Just past one. The Lion’s Paw Veterinary Clinic is open until six, according to the brochure in my welcome basket. Plenty of time to deliver these while they’re still warm.

Also plenty of time to talk myself out of it.

“No,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “No chickening out. That’s what got you into this mess.”

I look down at myself. Clean jeans. Cute floral top. Hair in a neat ponytail. Mascara, which is basically formal wear for the country.

Keys in hand, I hesitate. The clinic is a ten-minute walk. Driving is lazy, but walking means ten minutes to overthink.

“This is ridiculous.” I grab the basket and head for the door. “I’ve lived alone in big cities. I can deliver bread to one broody veterinarian.”

The afternoon sun is warm on my face as I walk down the country road.

Dust kicks up with every step. Birds chirp.

The breeze is gentle, the leaves rustling.

Everything is so aggressively picturesque I could scream.

This is what I wanted when I left my high-stress job, but sometimes the quiet is mocking.

Look at this perfect setting, Liana. Too bad you’re still a mess.

I clutch the basket tighter, feeling the bread’s warmth through the cloth. The scent of ube rises, soothing. This, at least, I can do.

The Lion’s Paw comes into view. Two stories of honey-colored wood, big windows, a wraparound porch. A hand-carved sign with a pawprint. It looks more like a cozy home than a clinic.

But I remember who’s inside.

Deep breath. Straighten up. Walk up the creaking steps. Before I can second-guess, I push open the door. The bell tinkles softly.

First thing I notice: it’s ridiculously cozy. Like a living room, not a clinic. Big, soft chairs in warm earth tones. Ambient lighting. The scent of cedar and herbs, clean antiseptic underneath. Watercolor paintings of wildlife on the walls. A giant aquarium bubbling with bright fish.

The front desk is empty. A small bell sits beside a handwritten “Ring for Service” sign. But before I can touch it, a deep, rumbling voice rolls out from the back.

“Easy now. Almost done.”

The voice shivers straight down my spine. I recognize it. Deeper, softer now. Gentle.

Curious, I follow the sound down a short hall lined with closed doors. One room is open, light spilling out.

“There we go. Good girl.”

I peek inside.

Oh no.

He’s good with animals. This is bad.

Roarke kneels beside a chimera, one hand inspecting bandages on its front leg. His back is to me. His mane-like hair is tied in a low bun, tawny fur visible at his nape. Even crouched, he looks huge.

The chimera—a lion-goat mix with small draconic wings folded tight against its sides—rumbles low in its chest. Roarke responds with a deep, soothing sound, almost a purr, stroking the creature’s mane.

“There. Not so bad, is it?”

The chimera chuffs, eyes half-lidded, leaning into his touch.

I am not prepared for this.

One: Roarke is massive. I already knew, but seeing him beside a two-hundred-pound magical beast and still looking like the biggest thing in the room is something else.

Two: His hands are huge. The way they move, careful and precise and gentle, is almost hypnotic.

Three: His voice. When it goes soft and rumbly, affectionate?—

Help.

I might actually die here.

I clutch my basket like a shield, watching him tend the chimera, claws retracted, touch reverent. Something about it makes my heart stutter.

This is the same guy who barely spoke yesterday? He’s cooing at this chimera like it’s his child.

I must make a noise—a sigh, a shuffle, the sound of my dignity evaporating. Roarke’s ear twitches. He glances up, catching me staring.

His golden eyes lock onto mine. I jolt upright, nearly dropping my basket as I thrust it out.

“Hi! I brought bread!”

Did I just yell that?

The chimera startles, and Roarke calms it with a hand on its flank, eyes never leaving me. His face is unreadable, but I swear there’s a glimmer of amusement.

He blinks, slow and assessing, then stands to his full, intimidating height. In the small room, he feels even bigger. The top of my head barely reaches his chest.

I swallow.

He moves toward me, silent, eyes flicking to the basket. The scent of bread thickens. His nostrils flare.

“It’s ube cheese pandesal,” I babble. “Filipino sweet bread. With purple yam and cheese. Along with other dishes in case you prefer more savory. For fixing my coop. And the chicken wrangling. I thought you might like—I mean, I don’t know what you eat, obviously, but everyone likes bread, right?

Unless you’re gluten-free, which would be fine, I could make something else?—”

He reaches out. I stop mid-ramble, breath caught, as his large hand hovers over the basket. He takes a roll.

Tears a piece off.

Pops it in his mouth.

Chews.

I wait. Does he hate it? Is it weird? Why didn’t I think about dietary restrictions before spending three hours baking?

His face is stone. Then, finally, he gives a slow, approving nod.

“Good.”

That’s it. One word.

But from Roarke, it’s a sonnet. A five-star review. I just won a championship.

Relief and pleasure flood me. I can’t help the grin that spreads. “High praise from the mighty Roarke.”

He gives me a long, unimpressed look, but the corner of his mouth twitches.

“Don’t push your luck,” he mutters. No edge to it.

He takes another roll.

The chimera makes a curious sound, sniffing the air. Roarke breaks off a tiny piece and offers it. The creature accepts the morsel, gentle.

“She’s beautiful,” I say, nodding to the chimera. “What happened to her leg?”

Roarke strokes her mane, absent. “Thorn bush. Got caught hunting. Nothing serious.”

“Is she yours?”

He shakes his head. “Wild. Local herd.”

I bite back a smile. He speaks like every word costs him.

“So you just go out, find injured magical creatures, and help them?”

He shrugs one massive shoulder. “Someone has to.”

There it is. That softness, hidden under all the gruff. My heart flips.

“Well,” I say, gesturing to the basket, “there’s plenty more food stuff in there. Consider it a thank you for yesterday. And a preemptive apology for whatever disaster I cause next week.”

He snorts. Not quite a laugh, but close enough. I count it as a win.

“I take back what I said about your fence,” he says, reaching for another roll. “It wasn’t weak.”

I raise my brows. “No?”

“No.” He takes a bite, fixes me with a look. “It was catastrophic.”

I laugh, warmth curling in my chest. “Tell me how you really feel.”

“You asked.” There’s a glint in his eyes now.

The chimera makes a soft, impatient sound. Roarke turns back to her, hands gentle. I watch, fascinated by the contradiction: so large, so intimidating, so careful.

“I should let you get back to your patient,” I say, stepping toward the door. “Thanks for not hating me. For the chicken thing.”

He looks up, unreadable. “Your bread is better than your fencing.”

From anyone else, it would sting. From Roarke, with that almost-smile, it’s the highest compliment.

I grin, backing toward the door. “I’ll take that as a win.”

His voice stops me. “Liana.”

The sound of my name in his mouth sends a shiver down my spine. I look back. His golden eyes are still on me.

“Thank you for the basket.”

I nod, suddenly shy. “Anytime.”

And I mean it. I’d bake a thousand loaves to see that almost-smile again.

I’m walking back down the country road, sun hot and heavy on my shoulders, and I can’t stop grinning like an idiot.

Yeah. He’s got that quiet, brooding thing going on. And sure, he’s a little scary.

But I already know—I’m going to have a damn good time getting under his skin.