Page 11 of Bunker Down, Baby

Maple

The midnight snack is going so well I could scream. In a good way. Like a ‘sunshine just burst out of my chest’ kind of scream. Dean is feeding me spoonfuls of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream like I’m a treasured little housewife and not a woman who kidnapped him with a sedative and a dream. Every time he taps the spoon against my bottom lip, he grins like I’m the dessert, and it’s not even subtle anymore.

Across the table, Evan is pretending this isn’t happening. Which is adorable, because he let me feed him a few bites too. And not even under duress! Okay, a little duress. Dean did threaten to feed him himself, and I think Evan would rather choke on his own tongue than let Dean hand-feed him.

But still. Progress!

I beam at them both. My boys.

“Brock’s still sleeping,” I say, licking ice cream off the corner of my mouth with a very purposeful flick of my tongue. Dean notices, his pupils dilating like someone just handed him a gun and said ‘run.’ “He’ll be out until morning. He’s an early riser, though. Which gives us two options.”

Dean cocks his head, curious and already dangerous. “Lay ‘em on me.”

I stir my spoon through the melting mess in my bowl. “Option one: group sex and a nap. Option two: we go get Holden before he panics and locks himself inside his DIY tin can bunker. Which would be tragic, because yes, he has some supplies worth taking, but his setup is basically ‘doomsday chic by Home Depot.’ Not cozy. Not curated. Very sad-man-alone-in-the-woods energy.”

Dean smirks, wide and wicked. “If we have group sex, I might not be able to carry Holden to the car.”

Evan chokes on his next spoonful.

“Come on,” Dean says, grinning at him. “You fucked her. Don’t tell me that wasn’t a full-system reboot. You needed a defrag and a software patch after that one.”

Evan very nearly drops his bowl.

I laugh, delighted. “So we’re thinking: Holden first, then group sex, nap, and a hearty breakfast for our new boys before we snag Wade?”

Evan stares at me. Like long, dark-eyed, ‘what the fuck is my life’ staring. Then, because he’s such a little menace, he slowly licks a bit of ice cream from his spoon, lips parting like he knows exactly what he’s doing with that mouth. “Poor Brock doesn’t get a personal fucking before you bring in the next?” he asks, deadpan.

My knees knock together.

I lean across the table, grip his chin, and lick the smear of ice cream from the corner of his mouth, slow and messy and claiming. “Brock needs to be romanced. He’s a feral loner with trust issues and a sniper’s glare. That kind of man takes a little finesse.”

Dean slides his hand up my thigh under the table, palm warm and possessive. “She’s adorable and adaptable,” he says, voice thick with pride. “Do we lock up your moody boyfriend before we go?”

Evan scowls. “You the daddy in this little family now?”

Dean snorts. “Hell no. I’m the black sheep. Brock or Holden’ll end up daddy. You? You’re the broody one. The emotional support criminal.”

Evan opens his mouth, closes it, and frowns. “You want me to talk to Brock if he wakes up?”

I shake my head. “No, baby. You just rest. You’ve already done so much by not stabbing anyone. He’s locked in. It takes time to earn an open door. What do you want for breakfast?”

“It didn’t take time for Dean.” He sighs and stares at me a few seconds. “French toast,” he says slowly, like he’s testing me. “Maple syrup. Fresh fruit. Sausage links.”

Dean whistles. “Damn, he’s upping the ante.”

“I have all that,” I say sweetly, practically vibrating with joy. “Behave, go to your room like a good boy, and that’s exactly what we’ll have. Brock’s not too fussy about food as long as it’s not store-bought crap.”

Evan mutters something under his breath but stands. “I’m only behaving because the world’s literally on fire.”

“Whatever works, sweetheart,” I say, blowing him a kiss as he heads back to his room.

Dean wraps both arms around me once he’s gone, chin on my shoulder, mouth brushing my ear. “You’re incredible, you know that?”

“I know,” I say, turning to kiss him, sweet and slow and already thinking about Holden.

Because it’s a family-sized apocalypse, and I still have two seats left at the table.

It’s a long drive to Holden’s.

The woods are quiet this time of morning, quiet in that unnerving kind of way. Like the world is holding its breath. Not even the birds are singing. Just the crunch of my boots on the dirt path and the soft hum of my own excitement thrumming beneath my skin.

Dean stayed behind at the ridge, eyes on me, waiting for the signal. Good boy. I blew him a kiss before I left. He knows his cue.

But this part? This is all me.

Holden’s bunker is tucked away in a valley like a secret he doesn’t want to share. I can see the glow of solar-powered lights along the eaves, dim enough to not draw attention, bright enough to say ‘I’m still home, motherfucker.’ His place is neat, disciplined. Traps disarmed. I memorized his patterns weeks ago. He only sets the trip wires when he’s leaving for a hunt. This morning, he’s still here. Alone. And probably listening.

Which is perfect.

I stop a good ten feet from the entrance, right where the trail breaks, and I clutch my arms like I’ve been out here all night, like I’m scared and cold and a little helpless. Which is deliciously funny, considering what I’m actually packing.

I sniff and call out softly, just a tremble in my voice. “Hello? Is someone there?”

Silence.

Then there’s rustling. Movement behind the door. A slot opens near the top of the reinforced hatch. Just a sliver. But enough to catch the glint of sharp, suspicious blue-grey eyes.

Holden.

“Who the hell are you?” he barks.

Oh, his voice. It’s rough from sleep. Or maybe disuse. Deep like a shotgun blast muffled by trees. I shiver on cue, and not even all of it is acting.

“My car broke down,” I say, voice breaking. “I’ve been walking forever. I just. I saw your lights. Please, I don’t need to come in, I just… I’m so tired.”

There’s a pause. He’s weighing it. Smart. But not smart enough.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Maple,” I say, softly. “Like the syrup. I’m not sick, I swear. I’ve been holed up, no exposure. Please.”

He pauses again.

Then there’s a click.

The door creaks open an inch. Just enough for me to get a much better look.

And ohhh holy mother of loaded guns, he’s hotter up close.

I mean, yeah, he looked good through the binoculars. All functional muscle and survivalist sex appeal. But up close? He’s a fucking problem. Tall, lean, and wiry. He’s not bulky like Brock, he’s all endurance and efficiency.

No shirt. No shame. His torso is all sinew and scars, lean but powerful. That ‘I carry logs and gut elk with my bare hands’ kind of body. Almost black hair, damp like he just threw water on his face. Blue eyes scanning me like I’m a deer that might bolt or bite. A wicked jaw covered in the kind of scruff that makes your thighs try to open on instinct.

And the veins in his forearms? Thick and running right down to the kind of hands that make you rethink your entire relationship with pain.

My breath hitches.

My nipples are immediately at full attention. Because of course they are.

I swallow hard and do my best not to purr when I say, “Thank you. You don’t know what this means.”

He steps back just a little, cautious but not immune. “You got anything on you?”

Just these panties and a hundred filthy thoughts, babe.

“Just what’s in my pockets,” I say, slowly unzipping my jacket so he can see the flat of my stomach and just a hint of cleavage. Not enough to scream ‘trap,’ but enough to say ‘yes, I’m real and you definitely want to help me.’

His eyes flick down, then back up, but not fast enough to pretend he’s not interested. Men are all just blood and guns, really. You get it flowing the right direction, and they’ll walk into the net with a smile.

He mutters something under his breath. Maybe a curse. Maybe a prayer. Then he opens the door wider.

Bingo.

I step inside and the door closes behind me with a heavy thud and a metallic click. It’s like stepping into a bear den.

It’s dim in here, all thick shadows and the warm, woodsy scent of cedar, gun oil, and Holden himself, earth and sweat and firewood. My lungs expand like they’ve missed this particular flavor of man. There’s something feral about the place. No frills, just what he needs. Bedroll, shelves lined with vacuum-sealed meals, racks of weapons so clean I could kiss him for the maintenance alone.

I probably will.

My boots crunch faintly over gritty wood floors as I follow him in. He’s moving slow, cautious, giving me side-eyes like I might sprout fangs and lunge. Smart boy. But not smart enough to keep his back to the wall.

I let my eyes drag over him like I’m starving. Because I am. His shoulders flex with every step he takes. His back tapers down to a narrow waist, and those sweats hang criminally low on his hips. Low enough I can see the top of the deep V that leads to every filthy thing I’m thinking of doing to him once he’s cuffed to a bed and breathing heavy in my sheets.

His hair’s longer than I expected up close. Messy, like he shoved a hand through it instead of brushing it. I already want to pull it while I ride his face. There’s a scar on his side I didn’t know about, long and clean, probably a blade. I want to trace it with my tongue.

But more than anything, I want to fix him.

This place is rugged, yes, but it’s not enough. Not safe enough. Too exposed. Too open. If someone wanted him, really wanted him, they could take him.

Like I am.

I let out a soft sigh, voice all trembling sweetness. “You’ve really made this work, haven’t you?”

He looks over his shoulder, brow furrowed. “I’ve done all right.”

“You deserve better,” I say.

He turns, and for a moment, we’re face to face. That stubble, that mouth, those fucking intense eyes boring into me like he’s trying to figure out which category I fall into, helpless or dangerous.

Spoiler alert: it’s both.

“I’ve got something to help with the stress,” I say softly, like I’m offering a Tylenol.

Then my hand moves fast, faster than he expects, and the needle’s in.

His breath catches. His jaw tightens. He doesn’t flinch, just looks down at the spot on his arm, then back at me.

And then he smiles.

Not sweetly. Not kindly.

It’s the kind of grin that belongs on a wolf just before the teeth come out.

“You better fucking kill me,” he mutters, head tilting as his knees start to buckle.

I step in close, steadying him as he sways, like we’re dancing.

“Oh, baby,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to his cheek as his body goes heavy against mine. “I’m gonna spoil you.”

His weight is solid, dead-limbed, but manageable. And I don’t even have to call for Dean, he’s already inside, like he’s been listening.

“Got him?” Dean asks casually, taking the other arm like we’re just helping a drunk buddy out of the bar.

“Like a dream,” I say, grinning. “And he smells so good. Like gunpowder and deer blood.”

Dean snorts. “So your type.”

I sigh, I’m already picturing Holden tucked under a fuzzy blanket in my concrete nest, confused and bare-chested and glaring.

“I can’t wait to show him his room. He’s gonna be so mad at first,” I giggle. “But it’s really nice. Comfy mattress. Good lighting. I even found him those wool socks he likes.”

Dean grunts as we haul Holden up the trail toward the car. “You know his sock preferences?”

“I know all your preferences,” I hum, stroking Holden’s hair as we go. “Why do you think I bought Evan those expensive face wipes? Or stocked your coffee exactly how you like it? I prepare.”

Dean glances at me sideways, a smile tugging at his filthy mouth. “You know, for a stalker, you’re the most thoughtful woman I’ve ever met.”

I beam, completely unbothered. “Aw. That’s so sweet.”