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And she’s right.

I close the door behind me. Quiet. Clean. No click of the latch to wake her.

She’s wrecked in the best way. Loose-limbed and soft-mouthed, stretched across the bed like she doesn’t remember how to hold herself together. And I’d take credit for that, but the truth is, she let me.

Asked for it. Begged for it.

And I gave it to her with all that locked-down, years-too-tight control that I’ve been holding onto like armor. And now?

I’m not letting anyone near her who doesn’t understand what that means.

Because she’s not just the unhinged brain behind this operation anymore. She’s not the woman who drugged me, restrained me, and fed me steak like a bribe.

She’s mine.

So when I step into the main room of this half-sinful, half-military fever dream of a bunker and find men at the pool table, shirtless, barefoot, laughing about something involving Wade’s cow and ‘questionable suction dynamics,’ I don’t start with a threat.

I start with observation.

Dean’s the first to spot me. Of course. Eyes always scanning, even when his mouth is moving at a hundred miles an hour. The kind of man who jokes right up until he breaks a nose or a rule.

He grins wide, tipping his chin in greeting. “Look who finally put his big ol’ survivalist rifle to good use,” he says, waving a pool cue at me like it’s a sword.

Evan doesn’t even look up from lining up his shot. “Are we pretending you didn’t spend days locked up like an angry feral mountain cat and then immediately took her to bed the second you got released?”

“I didn’t pretend,” I say, stepping toward the table. “I made a decision.”

And I did.

Thought I’d wait. Thought I’d stay sharp, let the others lose their edge while I calculated my exit strategy.

But then she kissed me like I was oxygen. Touched me like she already knew every scar and didn’t flinch at a single one. Whispered my name like it was safe in her mouth.

Now? Exit plan’s dead.

Wade chuckles low and easy, already up and grabbing a plate of food from the counter like this is his house and I’m a guest who needs feeding. Which, to be fair, I am.

“I made sausage,” he says. “And eggs. Toast too. Figured you’d be hungry after all that… thinking.”

I take the plate from him with a nod. He buttered the toast all the way to the edges. It’s small, but it’s telling. Wade doesn’t talk much, but he sees people. Anticipates needs before you know you’ve got them.

That’s a good man.

Brock’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching me like he’s still weighing whether I’m an asset or a liability. I give him a look.

We’ve both seen what happens when shit hits the fan. We’ve both had to make decisions the rest of the world would call monstrous. And we both know this, this fucking harem bunker fever dream fantasy thing, it only works if the walls hold.

Brock gives me a slow nod.

Yeah, he’s in too.

That’s when Dean slaps the pool table with his cue like he’s declaring war. “So, Daddy’s out of the bedroom and ready to give us a safety briefing?”

I stare at him.

He smirks harder. “What? Don’t act like you’re not the clipboard and codeword type.”

Evan finally sinks his shot. “He’s not wrong.”