Page 76 of Bunker Down, Baby

Brock puts down his cards with the kind of quiet finality that makes my skin prickle.

He doesn’t slam them, doesn’t throw a look around the table, doesn’t smirk or snarl or say something dramatic. He just places his hand down, eyes on me, and says, low and calm, “Can I have a word?”

And sweet hell do the words in my brain immediately scramble into fifty-seven positions, none of them rated below NC-17.

A word. A word.

Does he mean in my room? Against the wall? A word with my legs over his shoulders? I’m not picky. I’m not proud. I’m also currently wearing nothing but my pants and one sock, and I’d like to see where thiswordgoes, because I’ve had a long day, I’m full of potatoes, and frankly? I deserve a little post-poker destruction.

Before I can answer, Wade lets out a low chuckle. “Damn, I was one hand away from throwin’ her bare ass in the pot.”

Dean’s head snaps toward Brock, eyes narrowing, protective and pissed off in equal measure. His hand finds the back of my neck like he’s claiming territory. “You want me to cuff him again?” he murmurs, real quiet. Real serious.

Evan, not to be outdone in the silent alpha department, tosses his shirt over my shoulders like a goddamn gentleman assassin and says, “Just in case it’s not that kind of conversation.”

God, I love them.

“I’m fine,” I say, pulling Evan’s shirt around me like a cozy little murder cloak. “Let me see what he wants.”

Brock is already standing. He doesn’t offer a hand. Doesn’t wait for permission. Just turns and starts walking like he expects I’ll follow.

He’s not wrong.

I trail after him down the hallway, barefoot all but one sock, shirt half-buttoned with Evan’s scent clinging to me, already imagining all the filthy, depraved ways this is about to go. The tension between us has been a slow-burn furnace since day one, and I am ready for that fuse to blow.

We step into the corridor that leads to the storage wing, and I’m already mentally calculating how long it’ll take to unbutton his pants before he slams me against the wall.

“I want to see the security,” he says.

I blink. “The what now?”

He turns, crosses his arms, and stares at me like I’m the one being weird. “The perimeter. Camera feeds. Backup power. Defensive strategy. You said this place was secure. I want to see how secure.”

I stare at him for a beat too long. My brain, still in the middle of planning an orgasmic ambush, has to realign hard.

“You don’t want to…” I gesture vaguely at my body, which is, frankly, spectacular right now. “Nothing?”

His brow ticks up. “Didn’t say that. But I don’t fuck people I don’t trust.”

Whew.

Okay.

That… did something.

I spin on my heel and stalk toward the control hub, cheeks flushed, heart pounding in the completely wrong way. “Fine. You want security? I’ll show you security.”

The door slides open with a satisfying hiss, and I flick on the panel lights like a dramatic bitch in a sci-fi movie. The monitors blink to life, showing grainy black-and-white feeds of the land above, field cams, perimeter motion alerts, windmill turbines spinning like lazy death blades in the night breeze.

Brock steps in behind me, quiet as a damn shadow.

“This one’s thermal,” I say, pointing to the third screen. “And this,” I hit a button, “Is the live sweep of the west treeline. The cameras rotate every ten minutes, unless there’s a trigger. Then they freeze on the zone.”

He grunts, approving. “Backup?”

“Solar and wind. Plus two gas generators. One main, one fail-safe. And yes,” I say, turning to look at him over my shoulder, “I rotate the fuel. Label the tanks. Do you think I don’t rotate?”

His mouth twitches. Not a smile, but… maybe the memory of one. “And weapons?” he asks.

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