Page 34 of Bunker Down, Baby

There are tools. Real ones. Good ones. Expensive. The kind you don’t find at some shitty strip mall hardware store. The lighting’s decent, the space is clean, and she even set up a mini fridge with a label on it that says Dean’s Drinks in Sharpie.

I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, and just watch her.

She’s in full presentation mode, gesturing at everything like I’m her newest cult recruit and this is our sacred chapel. I’m not even pretending to listen anymore.

I’m just drinking her in.

That little wrinkle between her brows when she’s concentrating. The way she fidgets with the hem of her shirt. The slight flush on her throat when she knows I’m watching her ass again.

I step in close, just behind her. She doesn’t move, but I know she feels it. The heat. The weight of me.

“Just to be clear,” I murmur, “This is still technically kidnapping.”

“Technically,” she agrees.

“And you drugged me,” I add.

“Only a little,” she says, sweetly.

“And you plan to keep me here.”

“Forever.”

I grin, cock hardening as she turns her head to look at me, doe-eyed and dangerous.

“Fuck,” I mutter. “I really should be more concerned about this.”

She beams. “But you’re not?”

“Nope,” I say, stepping around her and sitting on the stool by the bench. “Because Pamela had ferrets, and you have a tool chest and a pizza oven.”

“See?” she says brightly. “You get it.”

I do. God help me, I really do.

She’s unhinged. But so am I.

And at least with her? The sex’ll probably kill me in a good way.

I don’t miss the faint smirk she tries to hide as she turns and starts walking again. And I follow, because now I’m curious.

She’s shown me where we sleep, where we work, where we eat.

So what’s left?

Oh. Right.

Her room.

She stops at the end of the hall and opens the last door with a little flourish, like ta-da, and just like that, I’m inside the wolf’s den.

And fuck me, it’s nice.

Like real nice.

Big bed, soft lighting, candles on the nightstand like some witchy Pinterest board exploded in here. It smells like her shampoo and clean sheets and something sweeter underneath, like sugar and sex.

She walks in ahead of me, gesturing casually. “This is where I sleep. And sometimes read. Or think.”

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