Page 4 of Purring for Her Lion (Harmony Glen #5)

ROARKE

The containers of Liana’s food that she brought me sit in my clinic’s refrigerator. Lumpia, adobo, that coconut curry she’d insisted I try, and enough rice to feed a mining crew for a week.

Her handwriting is scrawled in blue marker across the lids, looping and careful: Don’t heat this one too much.

Reheating instructions. As if I’m a child.

So what if I followed it to the letter the moment she left and ate the best food I’d eaten in my life?

I do not need her cooking. I am a grown Rodinian male who survived three galactic campaigns on military rations. Besides, I rarely take lunch breaks. It breaks up the pace of the day.

The morning at the clinic is routine, almost insultingly so. The chimera is now vaccinated and thankfully found a foster home with Mrs. Henderson. Routine check ups for a variety of pets. Standard procedures.

Everything running precisely as it should, except for the gnawing, ridiculous awareness of lunchtime creeping closer. And the decision I’ve already made.

With one glare at the refrigerator, I take off my lab coat, hang it on the hook with more force than necessary and lock up with a sign that said I’d be back in an hour.

There are perfectly fine eateries within walking distance, after all. Besides, it’s a lovely day, and I could use some fresh air.

Cool Beans sits by the river, all quaint bistro seating out front and cheerful staff. I rarely go as it’s a little farther away from my office for a quick lunch.

Usually, there are too many regulars, too much noise, not enough privacy. That made it the perfect destination today.

A string of bells clatter over the door as I enter. Conversation falters. Eyes flick my way. I ignore the stares.

“Dr. Khoran!” A woman with royal blue hair calls out to me with a wave. Her name escapes me, and I hate that I can’t remember it. I know she’s the owner at least. “We don’t often see you here for lunch. Special occasion?”

“Just lunch.”

“Special okay?”

I scan the menu at a glance. Turkey club sandwich with house made chips. Seems straightforward enough. I nod. “That. And water.”

Belatedly, I remember her name—Gillian—but she’s already retreated behind the counter with her staff.

I survey the room. Half the town is here, clustered in groups, laughing, sharing food. More are gathered out back.

I should do this more often. Integrate.

I find a corner table where my tail won’t be crushed, and use a napkin to wipe down the table top and chair before sitting.

A server—Annie? Amy? Something with an A—arrives with my sandwich. White bread, turkey, bacon, lettuce, tomato. Standard. I take a bite.

It tastes like nothing. Not bad, just aggressively mediocre. The turkey is dry, the bacon limp, the tomato flavorless in that special way of winter tomatoes. The chips are crunchy, salty, edible. Everything is technically food, but none of it is worth remembering.

My mind drifts to the leftovers in my fridge. Lumpia, crisp and golden. Adobo, rich and dark, flavors layered in a way that’s both comforting and electric. The curry, simmered for hours until every bite is perfect. All balanced over a bed of fluffy and fragrant rice.

This sandwich is an insult.

I finish it anyway, pay quickly, and leave before the waitress can ask about dessert. The bells over the door laugh at me as I go.

Back at the clinic, I check the clock. No other appointments. I could update my files. Clean and reorganize…something, anything.

After all, I am a professional. I do not rearrange my schedule for the siren call of leftovers.

Except, apparently, I do.

Twenty minutes later, I close down the clinic and I’m in my kitchen, heating Liana’s curry exactly as she instructed. The scent fills the room, thick and intoxicating, making my mouth water in a way that café sandwich never could. The first bite is a shock to the system: rich. Layered.

Home.

I groan, helpless to stop eating until the tupperware is squeaky clean. I lick every last drop of food, knowing that I’ll want more tomorrow.

I smell her before she even opens the door. That sweet scent of flour and sugar, now familiar after just one meeting, drifts through my clinic like a ghost. It weaves through the antiseptic and herbs, something new, something that makes my nose twitch.

Liana Reyes. The walking disaster with the magical food and chaotic homestead. I try to ignore the way my tail flicks, betraying the interest I refuse to acknowledge.

She’s chaos in motion. One minute, she’s bribing me with the softest, fluffiest bread I’ve ever tasted, so good I nearly moaned on the spot. The next, she’s standing in my doorway, eyes wide, almost afraid to enter my clinic.

For a long moment, I’m deluded enough to wonder if she brought me more food despite seeing her hands empty, fingers fidgeting with her rings.

I realize I’ve been staring at my charts, pen poised, for nearly a minute. With a low growl of annoyance at myself, I set the pen down and look up.

“Back already?” I keep my voice neutral, though something in my chest lightens at the sight of her. Irritating.

“Hi.” She radiates nervous energy, different from yesterday’s flustered gratitude. “I’m glad you’re not dead or sick. At least my cooking didn’t kill you.”

Her eyes grow round as she slaps a hand over her mouth. “Oh my god, I mean?—”

“I know what you meant,” I say in hopefully a placating tone. Her heart’s going too fast, her scent tinged with anxiety. She shifts her weight from foot to foot.

I wait. People always fill the silence if you give them enough time.

Liana lasts seven seconds.

“I, uh…” She hugs the basket tighter. “I found something weird on my property, and I was too nervous to move it.”

I brace myself. “Weird” from a human who thought a chicken coop held together with duct tape was acceptable could mean anything from a strange mushroom to a corpse.

“Define weird,” I say, setting my charts aside. My clinic is closed for lunch. No patients waiting. No interruptions. Just me and this anxious human, clutching a bread basket like a life raft.

“It’s, um…” She bites her lip. Then, in one quick breath: “I found a giant egg.”

I freeze.

I don’t breathe.

For a long moment, I don’t even blink.

Giant eggs in the wild are rarely benign.

Liana doesn’t notice. She keeps talking, fast, nervous, oblivious to the way my entire focus has shifted.

“It was just sitting there, like—boom, hello, I’m a suspiciously large egg, just chilling in the middle of nowhere—and at first I thought maybe it was a prank?

Because who leaves giant eggs in people’s fields?

But then I touched it, and it was warm, and I’m pretty sure eggs aren’t supposed to be warm unless they’re being sat on by something, and there was definitely nothing sitting on it, unless whatever laid it is invisible, which—oh god, are there invisible creatures here?

Because nobody mentioned that in the town welcome packet?—”

I cut her off, sharper than I mean to. “Where did you find this?”

She startles, eyes wide. “Oh no. Oh no. I’ve stolen something important, haven’t I?

Is it endangered? Protected? Did I just commit a felony by touching it?

Because I swear I didn’t move it far, it’s still exactly where I found it, just with a little blanket over it because it seemed cold even though it was warm—which doesn’t make sense, I know, but it just looked like it needed a blanket?—”

I take a slow breath. This woman could talk circles around a professional auctioneer.

“Describe it,” I say, slicing through her spiral.

She nods, gathering herself. “Right. Okay. It’s about this big.” She gestures: beach ball. “Kind of oblong, but not like a chicken egg. More rounded at both ends. The shell is really thick, or at least it seems thick. I didn’t, like, knock on it or anything.”

My heart rate ticks up. Size matches.

“Color?”

“Mostly dark green, but with these lighter speckles all over it. Almost like someone splattered paint on it, but in a pattern? And there’s this weird iridescence to it, like when the light hits it just right, it kind of…

glows? Not radioactive glowing, more like… opal glowing? Does that make sense?”

It makes perfect sense. Too much sense.

“And you found it where, exactly?”

“In the back field, near the treeline. There’s this small clearing that I hadn’t really explored yet because it’s all overgrown. I only went there because I was chasing Nugget. Again.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m starting to think that chicken is leading me into trouble on purpose.”

I already know what it is.

A dragon egg.

Rare. Powerful. Sought after.

And it imprinted on her land.

Which means one of two things.

One: The mother abandoned it. Unlikely. Dragons are fiercely protective.

Two: It was placed there. On purpose.

Either way, leaving it out is not an option.

I stand. My chair scrapes the floor. Liana jumps, clutching her basket tighter.

“Show me,” I say, already moving for my field kit.

“Now?” she squeaks. “But what is it? You know what it is, don’t you? You’ve got that look, like when you saw my chicken coop and were mentally calculating how many predators could get through it in ten seconds.”

I exhale. No point hiding it from her. “It’s a dragon egg.”

Liana malfunctions.

Mouth open. Closed. Open again. Eyes wide, comical. She makes a sound between a squeak and a gasp.

“Excuse me?” Her voice is pitched high. “Did you just say dragon? As in fire-breathing, village-destroying, princess-kidnapping dragon?”

I tilt my head, unable to hide the twitch at the corner of my mouth. “Dragons don’t kidnap princesses. That’s a human myth. And not all of them breathe fire.”

She stares, processing, like someone told her gravity is optional.

“So it’s…a real dragon? A real, actual dragon? That’s going to…hatch? Into a real, actual baby dragon?”

I nod, gathering supplies: specialized thermometer, incubation blankets, gloves, monitoring equipment. “If it’s viable. It needs proper incubation, or it won’t hatch.”

She blinks. “So… what you’re saying is…” She swallows. “I’m about to become a foster mother?”

I blink.

Gods.

She is ridiculous.

“Not if we take care of it properly,” I mutter, not sure what that means yet. I’ve only encountered two dragon eggs in my career—and never like this. “Depending on the species and condition, we might need to relocate it to a proper facility.”

I expect panic. Rejection. Most humans would run from this. Dragons are not domesticated. A hatchling is dangerous, unpredictable, destructive.

Instead, she exhales, slow and steady.

Then she puts her hands on her hips and gives me a look of pure, stubborn determination.

“Alright,” she says. “We hatch the dragon.”

I stare, caught off guard by her certainty. No fear. No hesitation. Just unwavering resolve, like she’s announcing we’re going to bake a tricky soufflé instead of raise a magical apex predator.

“It’s not that simple,” I tell her, slinging my kit over my shoulder. “Dragons are complex. Hatching requires constant monitoring, precise temperature, proper imprinting protocols. And once it hatches?—”

“We’ll figure it out,” she interrupts, confidence bordering on delusion. “You’re a vet for magical creatures. I’m… very enthusiastic and I learn fast. Between us, we’ve got this.”

I should argue. I should explain all the reasons this is a terrible idea. I should call the Dragon Conservation Authority.

Instead, I nod, once, and follow her out the door.

I shouldn’t be this invested.

I shouldn’t already be planning how to incubate the egg, where it will be safest, what to do when it hatches.

But I am.

And I don’t know why.

Maybe it’s professional curiosity. Dragons are fascinating, and the chance to study one from hatching is rare.

Maybe it’s concern for the egg, abandoned or hidden for reasons I can’t yet determine.

Or maybe—it’s the way Liana’s eyes lit up with wonder, not fear, when I told her what she’d found. The way she accepted the responsibility without question. The way she said “we” instead of “I,” as if it’s already decided we’re in this together.

“My truck’s just out back,” I tell her, leading the way. “Faster than walking.”

“Truck?” She hustles to keep up. “I kind of pictured you riding a giant lion through the countryside.”

I give her a flat look. “That would be impractical.”

“So is having a truck with a tail, but I bet you make it work,” she shoots back, grinning.

I don’t dignify that with a response, but my tail flicks with amusement.

Outside, she stops, grabbing my arm. Her hand barely wraps halfway around my forearm, but the contact jolts me.

“Wait.” Her face is serious. “What if, what if it’s not abandoned? What if its mother comes looking for it?”

A valid concern. One I’ve already considered.

“Dragons don’t abandon eggs by accident,” I say, gently extracting my arm. “If it was placed on your property, there’s a reason. If the mother’s still around, she’s watching from a distance.”

“Watching?” Liana’s eyes dart to the sky. “Like, right now?”

“Possibly.”

“And she won’t, I don’t know, incinerate me for touching her baby?”

“Not if she chose you.”

Liana stops again, forcing me to face her. “Chose me? What does that mean?”

I hesitate. “It’s complicated. We need to examine the egg first. Confirm what we’re dealing with.”

She nods, but I see the questions stacking up behind her eyes.

We climb into my truck, modified for my size and tail. I’m acutely aware of her beside me. Her scent fills the cab: bread, sugar, anxiety, determination. She fidgets with the basket handle, fingers tapping out a nervous rhythm.

“Have you ever hatched a dragon before?” she asks as I start the engine.

“Once,” I admit. “At a conservation center. Years ago.”

“And did it… you know… imprint on you?”

I glance at her, surprised. “No. That’s not how it works with most species.”

“How does it work, then?”

I pull onto the road, considering. “Dragons form bonds. Complex ones. It’s not like a duckling imprinting on the first thing it sees.”

“So I’m not going to have a giant fire-breathing lizard following me around calling me ‘mama’?”

Despite myself, I snort. “No.”

“Weirdly disappointed about that,” she mutters. I can’t tell if she’s joking.

As we drive to her property, I plan. Calculate. Prepare for a situation I never expected in this quiet corner of the world.

I should contact the authorities. I should follow protocol. I should keep my distance.

Instead, I’m driving toward a dragon egg with a woman I barely know, already committed to seeing this through.