Page 14 of Bunker Down, Baby

Maple

As much as I’d love to spend the day taming my two feral new acquisitions, Holden the brooding survivalist who probably dreams in Morse code, and Brock, who’s one bicep-flex away from either breaking the bed or me, there’s a rapidly escalating global shitstorm that needs my attention.

The emergency broadcasts are getting uglier by the hour. Turns out the “miracle treatment” for the flu? Not such a miracle. People aren’t dying peacefully in their beds, they’re turning into rabid psychos. Not like zombie zombies, no brain-eating, no dragging a leg and groaning about brains, but more like… deranged raccoons on meth. Scratching, biting, mauling. It’s giving plague rat chic, and I’m not a fan.

So yeah. We need to go get Wade.

Before someone out there with a fever and a baseball bat decides he looks like a chew toy.

Dean and Evan are both coming with me. Because Wade comes with animals. Multiple animals. Plus a fucking tractor. I am not leaving a tractor behind. That would be criminal. Also, I’m not exactly sure how many goats we’re talking about here, but it’s more than one and less than a stampede. Either way, I need bodies and muscle and at least one person with actual vet-adjacent knowledge. Evan drew the short straw on that one.

We’re all piled into my car, which is packed to hell with sedation darts, hay cubes, animal crates, protein bars, and some heavy-duty rope, because I don’t know what kind of day Wade’s having.

The plan is simple. Once we hit the edge of his land, I get out first, channel my inner hot mess again, maybe limp a little for extra flair, and play damsel. Just like I did with Holden. Only this time with more goats. Hopefully Wade still has a hero complex and not, like, a flamethrower. Either way, once I’ve got him nice and dosed, I call in my sexy backup squad to wrangle livestock, secure the tractor, and haul our newest man prize home.

Easy. Fast. Efficient.

And if Wade resists?

Well. He won’t.

I kill the engine a half-mile back and make the rest of the approach on foot. Dean and Evan are waiting behind, out of sight, radio silent unless I call them in with the magic words, farmer down.

Wade’s land looks like a goddamn postcard. Rustic wooden fencing, rolling fields, a barn that’s seen better days but still stands proud, and a weathered farmhouse with white trim and a big wraparound porch that makes me want to crawl up on it and roll around like a cat in the sun. Chickens are pecking along the edge of the coop, three goats are eyeing me like they can smell my intentions, and, yes, thank Christ, the dairy cow is still alive and looking like a whole dairy queen.

It’s quiet. Still. Like the end of a storm.

And then the door creaks open and out steps Wade Colter in all his sun-kissed, sweat-glazed glory.

I freeze.

For a second, my brain completely short-circuits. Because holy shit.

He’s… beautiful.

Not pretty-boy beautiful, not like Evan’s sleek surgeon perfection. No, Wade’s the kind of beautiful that makes your mouth go dry. Like old whiskey and sweat and hay bales. His shoulders are so broad I could pitch a tent on them. His arms are tanned and strong, rolled sleeves hugging biceps that were clearly built doing actual work, not lifting some neon dumbbell in a climate-controlled gym. His dirty blond hair is tousled like he just ran a hand through it, and his warm brown eyes are so soft I want to curl up in them and never leave.

He looks like he could ruin me. Gently.

My knees do a little you’re not ready for this wobble, but I catch myself. Right. Focus.

I tug my cardigan tighter around my shoulders and adopt my best breathy, damsel-in-distress voice. I don’t have to fake the heat in my cheeks, that part’s very real.

“Hi,” I say, blinking up at him like I haven’t already made a whole PowerPoint in my head about what it would feel like to ride his thigh. “Are you sick? Or crazy?”

He blinks. “Come again?”

I stumble forward, wobbly and wide-eyed. “I mean, sorry, I didn’t mean that rude. I just, I’ve been driving for hours. There’s no gas anywhere. No help. And now there’s talk of people going feral, like actual feral, and I swear to God I saw a guy chewing on his steering wheel in the next county over.”

He’s already stepping off the porch. “You’re okay now. Come on inside.”

I blink. That easy?

Wade doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t size me up like Holden or glare like Brock. He just gives me this warm, patient look and waves me toward the house like this isn’t completely insane.

I follow him in, limping just a little for effect. The inside smells like cedar and old books and fresh coffee. Home.

He pours me a glass of water from a pitcher on the counter and hands it over with those big, calloused hands that I swear could wring an orgasm out of me without even trying.

“You can sit, rest up,” he says, nodding toward the kitchen table. “You’re safe here.”

God, that voice. It’s all gravel and honey, slow and low and just shy of a drawl. The kind of voice that makes promises without even trying.

I take a sip, keeping my eyes on him over the rim of the glass. He leans against the counter, arms crossed, and holy shit, his forearms are actual pornography. Thick and corded and dusted with sun-bleached hair. I bet he could lift me up against the wall with those arms, spread me open, fuck me senseless, and still have the strength left to milk a cow afterward.

“Thank you,” I say, voice all soft and grateful. “You’re really kind.”

He shrugs. “Wouldn’t feel right turning someone away. Not with the world how it is.”

Sweet. Pure. Zero chance in hell I’m letting him go.

I glance toward the front door. “There’s… more I should probably tell you.”

He tilts his head, smile never fading. “I figured.”

I sip the water again and smile sweetly, like I’m not about to upend his entire life. “You’re going to want to sit down for this, Wade. You’re about to be adopted.”

He slides into a chair across from me. Just like that. No yelling, no resistance, no threats. So obedient. I like that. I could eat him up with a spoon and then lick the bowl clean.

“Adopted?” he says, raising one golden brow and giving me a slow, deliberate once-over that lands somewhere between amused and interested. “You got a mommy fetish or something?”

I blink.

And then it hits me.

He just flirted with me.

He just flirted with me and I didn’t even have to drug him, tie him up, or feed him breakfast in bed. He did it willingly. Voluntarily. Like a big, golden retriever of a man with a devastating smirk and arms that could cradle me through the apocalypse.

I wasn’t prepared for this.

I was prepared for grunting, yelling, spitting maybe. Some light sedative juggling. Definitely a monologue. But this? This is Dean-level cooperation and I haven’t even told him the best parts. I haven’t even shown him the bunker yet. He doesn’t know he gets his own room and a stocked pantry and four very hot roommates who all know their way around a toolbelt and my body. Well, they all will eventually.

And he just… flirts.

I feel my eye twitch.

He’s still watching me, too. Watching like he knows I caught the flirt and now he’s just waiting to see what I’ll do with it. I swear to God, he’s trying to short-circuit me. The corners of his mouth twitch like he knows.

I clear my throat and sit up straighter, trying to regain some control of this wildly spiraling situation. “I’ve thought of everything,” I say. “You don’t have to worry about a single thing.”

Now it’s his turn to look confused, and I feel a little better.

Just a little.

I stand and walk the empty glass to the sink, taking my time because it gives me a second to breathe and also because I know his eyes are on me. I can feel it, hot and steady, like the sun on my bare shoulders. I bet his hands could leave handprints on my thighs. I bet he could hold me up against the wall and do my taxes.

Goddamn it, focus.

I glance over my shoulder. He hasn’t moved. Still watching. Still that maddening half-smile on his face, like he thinks he’s in control.

I walk back to him, slow and careful like I’m approaching a wild animal. A sexy, flannel-wearing, too-charming-for-his-own-good wild animal. I pause beside his chair, heart thumping. I don’t want to do it this way. I think, God, I think he actually would come willingly. I think he’d laugh and throw a duffel over one shoulder and ask where we’re headed and if there’s room for his goats.

But I can’t take that chance.

Not with him.

Not with the last piece of my collection sitting right here, practically glowing in the kitchen light. He’s too perfect. Too steady. The kind of guy who’d say yes now and then run the second things got weird. And with me? Things are always going to get weird.

So I smile.

And I stab him in the neck.

Quick little jab, practiced and smooth. He jerks slightly, more in surprise than pain, and blinks up at me with the most betrayed expression, like I just stepped on his dog.

“What’s… why?” His voice is already fuzzy around the edges, thick and sleepy, and it punches me straight in the chest.

I crouch beside him, easing his head gently against my shoulder, not just to keep him from slumping onto the floor, but because I need to touch him. To feel him go soft and heavy in my arms.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” I murmur, brushing my fingers through his tousled hair like we’ve known each other for years. “It’ll all make sense. You’ll see.”

He blinks up at me one last time before his lashes flutter closed, and I catch myself smiling like an idiot as he goes limp.

Because this one?

Oh, I’m going to spoil him rotten.