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Chickens are assholes.

I don’t know who designed them this way, but they are vengeful little dinosaurs with feathers and no regard for human dignity. The second we open the coop, it’s pure bedlam. They scatter like we’ve just announced chicken tax season.

Dean dives for one and gets pecked for his efforts. “Little bastard bit me!”

“Technically, that’s a peck,” I say, swatting at a blur of feathers that may or may not be a hen possessed by Satan.

We spend the next twenty minutes chasing them around like idiots, two grown men, sweating and swearing, trying to outmaneuver birds the size of soccer balls. One flies at my face. Another one shits on the ramp we just cleaned.

Dean finally catches one by basically tackling it to the ground.

I end up holding two under my arms while another flaps against the top of my head, screaming chicken obscenities.

By the time we get the last one loaded, I’m covered in feathers, dirt, and existential regret.

Dean leans on the side of the trailer, breathing hard. “You still want eggs after this?”

“I want an omelet,” I say. “To reassert dominance.”

We stand there for a second, covered in sweat and bird fluff, victorious in the dumbest way possible. The cow’s chewing hay like she’s seen worse. The goats are already trying to chew on the tarp. The chickens glare at us from their crate, plotting their next uprising.

And yet, somehow, this all feels… normal.

Which is maybe the most insane part of all.

Chapter Sixteen

Maple

This place is chaos, and not the good kind. Not the I just wrangled a sexy farmer and a dairy cow kind of chaos. No, this is the kind where I haven’t even made lunch for two-thirds of my bunker husbands and one of them is still cussing loud enough to scare the cheese off the damn lasagna. Okay, it’s shepherd’s pie, but that felt more poetic.

Dean and Evan helped tuck Wade into bed like the precious apocalypse treasure he is. He’s tied up, sure, but in a gentle ‘welcome to your new home, here’s your blanket and your personal harem leader’ kind of way. He’ll wake up soon, and I’d really prefer not to sedate him again, because that’s three and eventually one of them is going to build up a tolerance.

So now I’m speed-cheffing in the kitchen like the end of the world is still happening, which it is, and assembling three trays of shepherd’s pie. Wade gets extra cheese because he’s earned it. Sharp cheddar. None of that mild bullshit. Holden’s is neatly cut and portioned like he’s in a five-star bunker bistro. And Brock? Well. Brock gets fed first.

Because Brock is still screaming.

Loudly.

I think he saw me and Evan walk down the hall with our shirts half on and our dignity long gone, and now he’s throwing a full tantrum. I can hear him all the way in the kitchen, hurling insults like a man on fire who doesn’t realize the fire is made of feelings he doesn’t know how to process yet.

Honestly, I admire his stamina. I really do.

I slap his tray together with a flourish and march it down the hall, fully prepared to charm the rage right out of him with carbs, protein, and my winning personality.

I open the door and boom, instant shouting.

“You absolute psychopath! What the fuck is wrong with you?” he says.

“Hi, sweetheart,” I say, chipper as a morning news anchor hopped up on espresso and delusion. “I brought you shepherd’s pie.”

He’s panting. Hair wild. Eyes furious. Cuff chain taut as he strains against it like he’s auditioning for the role of ‘Most Likely to Snap a Steel Bolt with His Bare Rage.’

I set the tray down on the dresser and point to it. “Extra meat. Real cheese. And a fresh roll.”

He glares at the food, then at me, then back at the food like it might be poison. “You left me tied up here for hours. I could’ve died.”

“You were fine,” I say, waving that off. “You had water. And a pillow. And your temper tantrums are honestly great cardio. Plus, I was out getting us milk. And eggs. Do you know how hard those are to come by?”