Page 95 of Bunker Down, Baby

Wade just laughs, easy and warm, and hands me a plate with eggs, sausage, and something that might be toast or might be a lovingly crisped Pop-Tart. It’s Dean’s work. I can tell by the butter glossed across the top like it’s a goddamn culinary masterpiece.

“I present to you, m’lady,” Dean says with a flourish, “The bastard child of breakfast and sugar-based crime. Buttered Pop-Tart toast points. Gourmet as hell.”

I bite one just to humor him and moan loudly. For show, obviously.

Dean winks. “Told you. She gets it.”

Holden doesn’t even blink. Just slides his hand higher up my bare thigh and feeds me another bite like this is the new normal: him, playing throne, surrounded by four men who are somehow both chaos and order, and me, the deeply spoiled ringleader of our little bunker circus.

Brock watches me over the rim of his mug. He doesn’t say anything, but there’s heat in his eyes now. A kind of reluctant admiration, like maybe, just maybe, he’s starting to enjoy the ride.

Evan clears his throat. “We still doing drills later? Or does that depend on whether our queen can walk?”

I smile around a forkful of egg.

“I can walk,” I say, licking a bit of butter from my lip, “But not because anyone was gentle.”

Holden grunts behind me, and I feel the curve of his smile against my shoulder.

Dean whistles. “Hell, I love this woman.”

Wade tips his hat like he’s saluting. “We all do, partner.”

And in that moment, I’m not just a doomsday prepper or a stalker or a wildly horny collector of apocalypse husbands, I’m the center of the most beautiful chaos that ever existed.

I’ve got my bunker.

I’ve got my boys.

And breakfast has never tasted so good.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Maple

The first time Brock says good shot, I almost come.

He’s standing just behind me, close, but not touching, and I’m trying very hard to pretend my hands aren’t sweating through the grip of the rifle like I haven’t been around guns my whole life. Because I have. I know my gear. I know my stance. I can hit a target from a hundred yards with both eyes open and a hangover.

But with him behind me?

I forget how to stand. I forget how to breathe. I forget my name for a second.

“Try again,” he says, voice low and smooth, all gravel and cool wind and whatever predator energy he keeps caged behind those unreadable eyes. “Just like that. Shoulders down. Exhale slow.”

My shoulders drop automatically. Because I’m very obedient. When it’s him.

I take the shot. It lands.

And when he murmurs “That’s it,” I swear to God my nipples salute the flag of his approval.

There’s silence for a few beats, just wind rustling the treeline and the soft crunch of our boots in the dirt. It’s peaceful out here, wild, overgrown, quiet in the way only a man like Brock could appreciate.

And I ruin it instantly by turning to look at him, smug and already imagining what it’d feel like to be pinned between a tree and his scarred hands.

“You like watching me shoot, or you just want an excuse to stare at my ass?” I ask, flashing him a grin that I know is all teeth and no chill.

He lifts one brow. Doesn’t rise to the bait. “If I wanted to stare, I’d tell you to bend over.”

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