Page 9 of Purring for Her Lion (Harmony Glen #5)

ROARKE

Sunlight streams through the inn’s crystal windows, scattering rainbows across Liana’s face. She sleeps on, oblivious to the spectacle, her cheek nestled against my chest, one arm slung over my torso, one leg tangled possessively with mine.

She’s wrapped herself around me like I’m her personal heater. I’ve been awake for hours, perfectly still, letting her cling to me. Training keeps me disciplined, but the urge to pull her closer, to relive that unity dream, is almost overwhelming.

Rodinians call it a unity dream. It’s how we know when our fate mate is close. For us, finding and cherishing our fated mate is everything—it’s the closest thing we have to a religion.

I spent a lifetime in war, half a galaxy from here, and now, of all places, I find my mate on Earth. It’s a cruel joke. Or maybe it’s cosmic comedy.

The magical storm is gone, leaving behind a charged hush.

The air feels new, sharp with possibility.

Or maybe that’s just me, hyper-aware of her breath against my fur, the soft weight of her body pressed to mine.

She’s peaceful like this. No questions, no wild gestures, no tripping over chickens or dragon eggs.

Just her, breathing softly, burrowing closer to my warmth.

I should wake her. We need to check the egg, start incubation, get back to her homestead.

The logical part of my mind ticks off the priorities.

But the rest of me, the part that’s already lost to her, fixates on the way her hair brushes my arm, the way her fingers twitch against my fur, the way she fits against me.

Pathetic. Three years of solitude, undone by one night of accidental sleep and a unity dream with Liana. Stars, when does she even sleep? If we’d ever synced up before, I would have known. Maybe we’re always out of phase. I believe it. Her life is chaos.

Her breathing shifts, shallow and uneven. Waking. I have three seconds to decide what to do. Does she remember the dream? Do humans even feel unity dreams? I could pretend to sleep. I could slip away. I could?—

Too late. She tenses, goes still, sucks in a sharp breath. Her heart races against my side. I open my eyes and look down at her, face blank. “Good morning.”

Her reaction is everything I hoped for. She bolts upright, nearly falling off the bed, face flaming as she clutches the sheet to her chest. Ridiculous. I’ve already seen her in those absurd bread-printed pajamas.

“I—I’m so sorry,” she stammers, hair wild, voice rough with sleep. “I didn’t mean to—I must have—in my sleep?—”

I sit up, letting the sheet drop to my waist. Her gaze flickers to my bare chest, then away. Her blush deepens. I keep my face neutral, but inside, I’m savoring every second.

“It’s fine,” I say.

“Fine?” Her voice cracks. “I was using you as a body pillow!”

You did more than that in dreams. I shrug, casual. “You were cold. It’s a natural response.”

She blinks, gears turning. Did she expect anger? Embarrassment? I’m neither. I’m smug, but she doesn’t need to know that.

“Well,” she says, still clutching the sheet like armor, “it won’t happen again. I promise.”

That’s where you’re wrong, little mate. It will happen again. And more.

I hold her gaze a moment too long. Something in my look must give me away, because her eyes narrow, suspicion flickering through her embarrassment.

“We should check on the egg,” I say, getting up.

I move around the room, adjusting the incubator, checking the readings, all the while acutely aware of her eyes on me. She’s watching, probably trying to figure out if I’m as calm as I seem.

I’m not. I’m the opposite of calm. I’m completely, thoroughly bothered, in all the ways that matter.

But my face shows nothing as I peer into the incubator’s crystal dome.

“Is it okay?” she asks, voice shaky.

“Temperature stable. No stress patterns in the shell.”

“Good.” She hesitates. “About last night?—”

“You clung to me,” I say, meeting her eyes. Three words. No explanation. Just fact.

She opens her mouth, closes it, tries again. “I—that’s not—I mean, yes, obviously that happened, but I didn’t—it wasn’t?—”

I let her flail. She gestures wildly, hair falling in her face, still gripping the sheet. It’s almost impressive, the way she tries to explain away the obvious.

“It was cold,” she blurts. “You’re basically a furnace. It was purely thermal.”

“Thermal.” I echo her, deadpan. My eyes glint with amusement, but she’s too flustered to notice.

“Yes. Thermal. Physics. Body heat. Nothing weird.”

“Nothing weird,” I agree, solemn. My tail flicks behind me, betraying my mood.

She narrows her eyes, realizing I’m laughing at her, but unable to prove it. “You’re making fun of me.”

“No.” My mouth threatens to twitch. I keep it steady.

“You are! You’re just doing it very quietly!”

I turn back to the incubator. “We should leave within the hour. The egg will travel better in the morning, and we need to set up the permanent incubation station at your place.”

She grabs the topic change like a lifeline. “Right. Yes. The egg. Our priority.” She edges toward the bathroom, sheet still wrapped tight. “I’ll just get ready. For the egg. And the leaving.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Only when the door closes do I let myself smile.

I tell myself I’m being kind, letting her off the hook. Giving her space to process. Not making a big deal out of it.

The truth? I want it to happen again. I want what happened in dreams to happen in waking life. I want her wrapped around me, warm and trusting and unguarded. I want her to turn to me, even in sleep.

If I made a big deal this morning, it would never happen again. So I’ll play it cool. Let her think it was just about body heat and proximity.

Tonight, when we’re back at her place? We’ll see.

My tail flicks, satisfied.

The dragon egg sits secure in its incubator as I load the last of our supplies into the truck.

Liana hovers, avoiding eye contact, moving fast and nervous, like a spooked bird.

She’s been like this all morning, talking too much about nothing, obsessed with the egg, always keeping at least three feet between us.

It’s amusing. Also a little irritating.

As if one night of unconscious cuddling rewrote the laws of the universe.

Maybe it did.

I double-check the incubator’s harness, the temperature display. The egg glows, healthy and stable. At least something is.

“Is it okay? Readings look good? Should we adjust humidity?” Liana’s at my shoulder, careful not to touch me, peering at the egg.

“I read once that eggs need specific humidity, though that was chickens, not dragons, but maybe it’s the same?

Or totally different? I have no idea what I’m talking about. ”

“It’s fine,” I say. “Settings are optimal.”

She nods too fast, tucks her hair behind her ear. “Good. Great. Excellent egg situation.”

I just watch her. Her nervousness is almost a scent, electric and sweet, like static and rising bread. She’s overthinking, replaying the morning on a loop. Humans do that—they turn simple things into complicated messes, inventing scenarios to stress over. It’s exhausting to watch.

We check out at the inn. The copper-haired innkeeper beams at us. “I trust you found the Moonstone Suite comfortable?” Her eyes twinkle.

“Very,” I say.

Liana makes a strangled noise.

The innkeeper’s smile widens. “Magical surge nights often bring people closer together. The energy reveals truths.”

Wonderful. Mystical innkeeper wisdom.

“Bill,” I say, ignoring her commentary.

She hands me the charges. As I pay, I notice Liana at a crystal trinket display, fingers hovering, curious as always, never able to resist a new mystery.

“Your mate has good instincts,” the innkeeper murmurs. “Those are protection amulets. Useful for someone caring for a dragon egg.”

“She’s not my mate,” I say automatically. But the words taste wrong. My chest tightens with the lie.

The innkeeper just smiles. “If you say so, dear.”

I don’t answer. I move to Liana. “Time to go,” I tell her, placing my hand on her lower back to guide her out.

She doesn’t flinch. Instead, she leans into my touch. A rumbling purr rises in my chest—I stifle it with a cough.

We make our way to the truck in silence. Liana steals glances at the magical town, trying to memorize every detail. Her face is open, full of wonder, even with the embarrassment still fresh.

That’s what surprises me about her. Her capacity for joy, even in awkwardness.

She settles in the passenger seat, checking on the egg in the back. “I still can’t believe this is happening. A dragon egg. A real dragon egg.”

“You’ll believe it when it hatches,” I say, steering through the winding streets. “They’re loud.”

“Oh god.” Her eyes widen. “What do baby dragons eat? Do they breathe fire right away? Will it imprint on me? Or you? Or both? Will it think Chestnut is its mother? What if it eats Chestnut??”

“One problem at a time,” I cut her off. Her rambling is familiar now. Almost comforting.

The magical town falls behind us, normal countryside rolling by. I let myself think about last night. Something changed. Not obvious, not dramatic. But fundamental.

She fits against me. Not just physically, though her body molds to mine perfectly. But in a deeper way. Her chaos fills my stillness. Her questions fill a silence I didn’t know was empty.

I glance at her. She’s careful not to touch me, but last night, in sleep, she crossed the space between us. Clung to me like I was essential.

Her unconscious self trusts me. Seeks my warmth, my protection.

Her waking self isn’t there yet. Still sees me as the intimidating neighbor, the stoic vet, the reluctant dragon egg co-parent.

I can wait. Patience isn’t my strength, but for her, I’ll make an exception.

Because the truth is, I’m already lost. I’m protective of her in a way that goes beyond professional or neighborly concern. I’m attached to her chaos, her optimism, her bread. I’m not letting her go.

“Will the egg be okay in my house?” she asks, breaking the silence. “It’s not magical. What if it needs ambiance?”

“It will be fine,” I say. “Dragons adapt. They’re resilient.”

Like her. Adapting to farm life, to chicken stampedes, to dragon eggs, to sleeping beside a non-human neighbor.

She’s more resilient than she knows.

“If you say so.” She still looks worried. “I just don’t want to mess this up.”

Her tone is raw. I reach over and touch her hand, gentle. “You won’t,” I say, more certain than I mean to be.

She looks at me, startled by the contact, but doesn’t pull away. Our eyes lock. I see trust flicker there, just for a moment.

Then she looks away, cheeks coloring. “Well, with you helping, maybe we have a chance.”

I return my hand to the wheel, but something settles in my chest. A decision.

I’ll be patient. I’ll let her catch up. But I won’t back off. I won’t pretend it didn’t happen.

Because it did. And it matters.

Driving toward her homestead, dragon egg safe between us, I finally admit it:

This peculiar, loud, bread-baking human is mine to protect.

Whether she knows it yet or not.