Page 7 of Bunker Down, Baby

Maple

I hear the shift of weight before I see the flutter of his lashes.

The bed creaks, a groan of protest under six feet of tattooed, musclebound mechanical perfection, and I pop a pepperoni in my mouth, watching from the little armchair in the corner. My legs are curled under me, plate in my lap, another slice on standby. I made him lunch. Of course I did.

I’m not a monster.

Besides, I don’t trust restaurant pizza anymore. Half the city’s closed, and the places still open are a coin toss away from bioweapon hot zones. No thank you. I’ve seen the delivery guy from Marco’s sneeze into his helmet.

So I made the dough by hand.

Rolled it out. Brushed it with olive oil. Spread sauce I canned myself, sliced mozzarella from the local farm, tossed on the exact toppings he orders every time, mushrooms, banana peppers, sausage. A little red pepper flake. It’s the kind of pizza that makes a man fall in love.

And that’s exactly what he’s going to do.

Dean Mercer stirs, his breath catching as the sedative finishes letting go of his gorgeous system. His body moves in pieces, shoulders twitching, abs tightening, legs flexing under the blanket I oh-so-generously threw over him. His wrists test the restraints, just a light tug, like he’s checking a seatbelt.

Then he goes still.

And grins.

“Damn, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice scratchy but already cocky, “If you wanted me tied up, you could’ve just asked.”

My heart does a little skip, and I pretend it’s not the sound of his voice, or the way his biceps shift when he moves, or the fact that he’s smirking like he’s about to sweet-talk his way into a blowjob and not a lifelong apocalypse marriage.

I take another bite of pizza.

“I did ask,” I say with a shrug. “You just didn’t hear me over the sedative.”

He laughs. Full-bodied, real. No fear. Not even confusion. Just straight-up amusement.

“I knew you were trouble,” he mutters, letting his head roll toward me. His hazel eyes land, and his grin widens. “Damn. You’re prettier than I remember.”

My thighs clench. Absolutely not the time.

“You feeling okay?” I ask, innocent as pie. “I was gentle.”

“I can tell.” He flexes one shoulder, rolling it against the mattress. “Bed’s comfy. What is this, memory foam?”

“Same one Evan has,” I say.

“Evan?”

“You’ll meet him. He’s sweet. Not as quick on the uptake as you, but we’re working on it.”

He blinks. “Jesus. There’s others?”

“More eventually.” I smile, setting the plate aside and standing. “You’re number two.”

Dean just watches me, eyes dragging down my body like he’s undressing me with his brain. I’d be offended, except I picked this shirt specifically to get ogled by him. I look domestic. Non-threatening. Fuckable.

His gaze lingers on my hips. “So what’s the deal, sweetheart? This some kinky cult thing? Am I supposed to thank you for saving me from the flu or whatever?”

“No cult,” I say, walking toward him with slow, deliberate steps. “Just a girl with a plan. And a big heart.”

He watches me come closer, grin sharpening. “And big handcuffs, apparently.”

“Only for the first night,” I say sweetly. “If you behave, I’ll leave you uncuffed. Eventually you’ll get keys.”

“Mm.” He licks his bottom lip. “Sounds like I should make you breakfast.”

“Too late. I already made you lunch.” I reach the side of the bed and crouch down, trailing my fingers lightly over the cuff around his wrist. “Pizza. Made from scratch.”

His brows raise, intrigued. “You cook?”

“I do everything,” I say.

“Christ.” He laughs again. “You’re like a horny Martha Stewart with control issues.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Oh, it was.” He shifts, the blanket falling down a little as he moves. The ink on his forearms glints under the warm lights, and I absolutely do not lick my lips like a cartoon wolf.

“You going to kill me?” he asks lightly. Like he’s asking about the weather.

I grin. “God, no. You’re useful. You fix things. You’re hot. You’re already halfway in love with me.”

He tilts his head, considering. “You really believe that?”

“I know it, Dean.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then, slowly, he lays his head back against the pillow again, eyes flicking up toward the ceiling. “Well, damn,” he says with a sigh. “I guess I’m not fixing your generator today.”

I laugh. Loud and real and giddy.

Because this?

This is going to be so much fun.

“I’m not crazy, you know,” I say.

Dean gives me a look that says you absolutely are, but it’s softened by the fact that he’s chewing, mouth full of homemade pizza, nodding like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. It probably is. I used the good flour. The imported olive oil. I grated the cheese like I meant it.

“You’re just ahead of the curve,” he says after swallowing. “That it?”

“Yes,” I say, delighted. “Exactly.”

He smirks, leaning his head back against the pillow like he’s settling in for story time. His biceps stretch, the veins in his arms distracting the shit out of me. There’s a little grease under his nails. He smells like motor oil and heat and God’s favorite mistake. It’s all very compromising for my nervous system.

I take a breath.

“The flu’s getting worse,” I say, curling back into the armchair, folding my legs up under me. “Not the normal kind. The kind that kills you. Fast. And not in a cute, dramatic movie way. In a messy, ‘blood coughing in line at the grocery store’ way.”

Dean lifts a brow. “Charming.”

I nod. “I know. That’s why I stocked up.”

He watches me, amused but… listening. Really listening.

“I’ve got everything we need here. Food. Water. Power. Weapons, if it comes to that. But all that’s just stuff. I need people. People who can make it work.”

I look at him. Let my gaze run down his chest, the lazy sprawl of his legs, the rise and fall of his breath. “You fix things.”

“Sure do,” he says.

“You’re strong.”

“Getting stronger with every bite of this pizza, baby.”

“You’re loyal,” I add, like it’s a fact, not a guess.

He doesn’t argue. He just watches me for a second, that damnable glint in his hazel eyes. “And you think I’m already in love with you.”

“I know you are.”

He grins slow, tongue skimming the inside of his cheek. “You are good.”

I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “I need you to trust me.”

“I already do,” he says.

There’s a pause. A heartbeat of tension.

Then I rise, walk to the side of the bed, and unclip the cuff.

He doesn’t move right away. Just watches me. And then, so help me, he pats his thigh and murmurs, “C’mere, sweetheart.”

I nearly combust.

Instead, I straighten like a woman with dignity. “Tour first,” I say, fanning myself with a breath. “Flirting later.”

Dean chuckles and swings his legs off the bed. His shirt rides up just enough to show the lines of his lower abs and the waistband of his jeans, and God, I deserve an award for not crawling into his lap.

“Lead the way,” he says, stretching his arms overhead. “Let’s see the rest of your little doomsday palace.”

“Oh, it’s more than a palace,” I say, tossing him a wink. “It’s a utopia. For chosen people only.”

We head down the hallway, me barefoot and practically glowing, Dean barefoot and completely unfazed by being kidnapped. Honestly? He’s thriving.

We stop at the door to Evan’s room.

I press my hand against the glass, peeking in. He’s sitting up now, rubbing sleep from his eyes, his hair a mess, blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a sad prince in a cold tower.

“Evan,” I say brightly through the speaker.

His head jerks toward the door. He sees me and then Dean.

And oh, the look on his face.

Dean lifts a hand and waves. Grins wide, like they’re neighbors meeting in a cul-de-sac and not prisoners in my underground love fortress.

“Hey, Doc,” he says. “Heard you’ve got the good bed. Appreciate you warming it up.”

Evan stares. Blinks once. Slowly.

I bite my lip and laugh. Full-on giggles. God, this is going to be so good for Evan’s mood. He’s been so gloomy, and now? He’s got a roommate with the libido of a golden retriever and the abs of a sin.

“Dean’s going to be great for you,” I say, smiling like I just introduced two friends at brunch. “You guys are going to be such good influences on each other.”

“Family,” Dean says behind me, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “We’re making a weird, sexy family. I’m into it.”

Evan does not respond.

Which is fine. I didn’t expect him to. But he’s thinking. Processing. The same way Dean did, just a little slower. Like a microwave dinner heating in the middle.

I turn, facing Dean.

He’s looking at me like he’s already planning where to hang his tools.

“You’re seriously okay?” I ask, just a little breathless. “With all of this?”

Dean shrugs. “The world’s falling apart. You’ve got pizza, power, and a thing for handcuffs. Frankly, sweetheart, I think you’re saving me.”

I swoon. Actually swoon. Like a Victorian ghost in a corset.

He catches me by the waist before I can fully collapse, steadying me with one of those big, grease-stained hands. “Easy, baby. Gotta keep you running, remember?”

I gasp. “You mean like… metaphorically?”

He smirks. “Sure.” Then he leans in, close enough that I feel the heat of his breath on my cheek. “Also sexually.”

I slap his arm and keep walking.

God, I love him.