Page 30 of Bunker Down, Baby

I’m not a monster.

Besides, I don’t trust restaurant pizza anymore. Half the city’s closed, and the places still open are a coin toss away from bioweapon hot zones. No thank you. I’ve seen the delivery guy from Marco’s sneeze into his helmet.

So I made the dough by hand.

Rolled it out. Brushed it with olive oil. Spread sauce I canned myself, sliced mozzarella from the local farm, tossed on the exact toppings he orders every time, mushrooms, banana peppers, sausage. A little red pepper flake. It’s the kind of pizza that makes a man fall in love.

And that’s exactly what he’s going to do.

Dean Mercer stirs, his breath catching as the sedative finishes letting go of his gorgeous system. His body moves in pieces, shoulders twitching, abs tightening, legs flexing under the blanket I oh-so-generously threw over him. His wrists test the restraints, just a light tug, like he’s checking a seatbelt.

Then he goes still.

And grins.

“Damn, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice scratchy but already cocky, “If you wanted me tied up, you could’ve just asked.”

My heart does a little skip, and I pretend it’s not the sound of his voice, or the way his biceps shift when he moves, or the fact that he’s smirking like he’s about to sweet-talk his way into a blowjob and not a lifelong apocalypse marriage.

I take another bite of pizza.

“I did ask,” I say with a shrug. “You just didn’t hear me over the sedative.”

He laughs. Full-bodied, real. No fear. Not even confusion. Just straight-up amusement.

“I knew you were trouble,” he mutters, letting his head roll toward me. His hazel eyes land, and his grin widens. “Damn. You’re prettier than I remember.”

My thighs clench. Absolutely not the time.

“You feeling okay?” I ask, innocent as pie. “I was gentle.”

“I can tell.” He flexes one shoulder, rolling it against the mattress. “Bed’s comfy. What is this, memory foam?”

“Same one Evan has,” I say.

“Evan?”

“You’ll meet him. He’s sweet. Not as quick on the uptake as you, but we’re working on it.”

He blinks. “Jesus. There’s others?”

“More eventually.” I smile, setting the plate aside and standing. “You’re number two.”

Dean just watches me, eyes dragging down my body like he’s undressing me with his brain. I’d be offended, except I picked this shirt specifically to get ogled by him. I look domestic. Non-threatening. Fuckable.

His gaze lingers on my hips. “So what’s the deal, sweetheart? This some kinky cult thing? Am I supposed to thank you for saving me from the flu or whatever?”

“No cult,” I say, walking toward him with slow, deliberate steps. “Just a girl with a plan. And a big heart.”

He watches me come closer, grin sharpening. “And big handcuffs, apparently.”

“Only for the first night,” I say sweetly. “If you behave, I’ll leave you uncuffed. Eventually you’ll get keys.”

“Mm.” He licks his bottom lip. “Sounds like I should make you breakfast.”

“Too late. I already made you lunch.” I reach the side of the bed and crouch down, trailing my fingers lightly over the cuff around his wrist. “Pizza. Made from scratch.”

His brows raise, intrigued. “You cook?”

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