Page 50 of Bunker Down, Baby

The cuff rattles again, loud enough to echo through the bunker. I smile, heart doing a little excited flutter, because he’s awake. He’s strong. And he’s just going to look so cute once the yelling stops.

“Time to meet my future husband,” I hum, and head down the hall with my breakfast offering like a lamb to the slaughter, except I’m the wolf, and the lamb’s already locked down.

The screaming gets louder the second I open the door.

“Mother fucking Christ. What the fuck is this?!” he yells.

Music to my ears. Truly. A real banger of a wake-up track.

I step inside, humming a little, balancing the tray on one hand.

He’s sitting up in the bed, shirtless, chest heaving, arm straining against the cuff that’s locked to the reinforced post of the headboard. Hair a mess, eyes wild, face flushed from yelling. He looks like a gorgeous, furious animal caught in a trap, and honestly, I might be a little damp just looking at him.

“You’re real pretty when you’re angry,” I say sweetly, setting the tray down on the little nightstand I brought in just for him.

“Who the fuck are you?! Where the hell am I?!” he shouts.

I sigh. “Wow. No good morning? No thanks for the homemade pancakes and your favorite sausage links? If we’re gonna play it this way, I’m Maple Grace Monroe. And you’re safe now. I gave you a little something to sleep. It made the transport less traumatizing for all of us.”

He jerks hard against the cuff and the bedframe actually groans. I love that for me. “You’re insane. You drugged me. You fucking…what is this, some kind of sick hostage bullshit? Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

“Mmm,” I say, picking up a fork and cutting into one of the pancakes. “Okay, first off? That’s very rude. I cooked for you. I brought you all your things. I didn’t even forget your gross homemade beard oil.”

He stares at me like I’ve just crawled out of the walls. “You have my… what the hell is this place?!”

“Bunker,” I say cheerfully, chewing the bite I stole. “Fully reinforced, air filtered, stocked for years. We’re off-grid. Totally safe. And you’ve got bunkmates, so don’t panic.”

His jaw clenches. “Bunkmates?”

“Dean and Evan,” I say, walking a slow little circle around the bed to admire him from all angles. “Dean’s a mechanic. Strong like you. Evan’s a doctor, ER, gonna be vital when or if one of us gets sick or hurt. Both are amazing with their hands and, my god, in bed? Don’t even get me started. You’re gonna love them once you stop yelling and threatening to kill me.”

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” he growls.

I click my tongue. “Okay, see, this is exactly what I mean. That attitude? That tone? It’s why you don’t have a girlfriend already, Brock. I’ve watched you deal with people. It’s like this. Not very nice.”

His eyes narrow. “You’ve watched me?”

“Quite a bit,” I say, biting another piece of pancake. “Through binoculars, mostly. Sometimes a spotting scope. You’re very handsome when you split wood, by the way. Real nice shoulders.”

He makes a strangled sound and yanks at the cuff again. “I should have let the flu take me,” he mutters.

I gasp, hand to chest. “Don’t say that. We’re building something beautiful here. Community. Safety. Domestic bliss.”

“You’re a fucking lunatic,” he says.

I smile wide, syrup on my lip. “I’m eating another one of your pancakes for that.”

He groans like it physically hurts him. It’s so cute.

“Are you going to eat?” I ask, nudging the plate a little closer on the tray. “Coffee’s black, just how you like it. I didn’t add sugar, even though you strike me as someone who could use a little sweetening.”

He glares at me like he’s considering launching the entire plate at my head.

I smile anyway. “If I wanted to poison you, baby, I would’ve done it already. Probably right after hauling your growling ass into the car. And besides…” I pluck up a sausage link with my fingers, take a dainty bite, then hold the rest out to him. “I just ate some. Perfectly safe. A little spicy, actually. Like you.”

He turns his face away like I’m not the best part of his morning. So fucking rude. I’ll forgive it. He’s adjusting.

“I knew you’d be stubborn,” I say, taking a sip of his coffee just to prove a point. “You and Holden. You’re both all grrrr and scowly and ‘I work with my hands and don’t talk about my feelings.’ It’s honestly adorable. I’m wondering which of you is going to win the gold star for being the last to admit this is a literal dream come true.”

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