Page 28

“Shhh. You’re fine. You’re home,” I whisper, brushing his hair off his forehead.

Once he’s settled, I secure one wrist to the cuff at the side of the bed. Just one. I want him to wake up slow. Confused. Curious. A little vulnerable.

Delicious.

I pause, just taking him in.

The rise and fall of his chest. The curve of his inked arms, muscles twitching beneath the skin as the sedative wears down.

I sit beside him on the edge of the bed, one hand drifting down his bicep. His tattoos are warm under my fingers, his skin slick with sweat and the faint smell of engine oil and danger.

“God, you’re perfect,” I whisper. “You don’t even know yet, but you’re going to thrive here.”

I trace one line of ink slowly with my nail, watching it rise under his skin like a promise.

“You’ve got these big, rough hands,” I murmur, dragging my fingers down the side of his forearm. “I bet you’re good at so many things. You’re going to be so helpful.”

I lean down, breathing him in. He smells like leather and sweat and that gorgeous metallic tang of grease. Dean Mercer, freshly abducted and freshly irresistible.

My nipples tighten. My thighs clench. I could stay here all day. Just watching him sleep.

But I have a schedule. And breakfast to make.

I press a gentle kiss to the inside of his wrist and whisper, “Rest up, handsome. I’ll come check on you later.”

Then I slip out of his room and head to the little kitchenette like it’s just any other morning in the bunker. Like I didn’t just sedate and strap down a mechanic with forearms that could snap me in half.

I put on ABBA. Something cheerful and vintage. It’s important to keep spirits high.

I start frying eggs, the sizzle a sweet little symphony as I toss some bread into the toaster and hum to myself.

Because this is going to be a very good day.

And Evan is going to be so excited when he hears the news.

Once everything is ready, I balance the tray carefully in one hand, nudging Evan’s door open with my foot.

He’s still asleep, spread out on the mattress like he owns the place, one arm slung over his head, the other curled toward his chest, chest rising and falling in soft, even breaths. The restraint’s still latched to the bedframe, untouched. Such a good boy.

“Wakey-wakey,” I coo, voice sweet as syrup as I set the tray down on the little bedside table.

He stirs, eyes scrunching, nose wrinkling at the scent of bacon.

“There he is,” I murmur, brushing his hair back gently, nails skimming across his scalp. “Come on, Evan. It’s breakfast time.”

His eyes flutter open, still hazy with sleep, but already narrowing in suspicion. God, he’s cute like this. Ruffled and grumpy and shirtless in my bed. Well. His bed. But everything here is mine, so… semantics.

“You made bacon,” he mumbles.

“I always make bacon.” I perch on the edge of the bed, lifting the tray and setting it across his lap. “Crispy. Just the way you like it. Eggs soft, toast buttered. No crusts.”

He blinks at the plate, then back at me. “You cut the crusts off.”

“Of course I did.” I beam. “You’re mine. I take care of what’s mine.”

He’s silent for a second. Then, because he knows better than to push back, he picks up a piece of bacon and takes a bite.

He groans softly. “Goddamn it.”