SIXTEEN

The silence wasn’t really silence.

It was layered. Beneath it, there was always something—a low hum of distant movement, the faint rumble from above, the occasional pop of pressure shifting through the walls. My ears were starting to tune to it, picking up sounds that probably weren’t even there. It was the waiting that made it worse. The not knowing.

I sat with my back against the cold concrete wall, knees pulled up to my chest. The nightgown I’d thrown on in a panic was sticking to my skin slightly. I wasn’t cold anymore. The air down here was thick, warm, and dry, like it had been sealed too long.

Roy stood exactly where he’d been for the past however many minutes—or hours? I’d lost track. Back by the steel door, arms folded, earpiece still in, face set like it had been carved from stone.

“You’re not hot in that thing?” I asked, breaking the silence.

He glanced down at his tactical suit, then looked at me with a half-shrug. “I’m fine.”

“You’re sweating,” I said.

“I’ve been through worse.”

I rolled my eyes and rested my head back against the wall. Another boom rumbled faintly above us. Not as violent as before, but enough to make my heart jump again. I didn’t flinch this time, not as much. My body was getting used to the pattern, like it was becoming part of the rhythm down here.

“If it’s Marco,” I muttered, “he’s not going to stop.”

Roy turned his head slightly, listening again, but didn’t answer.

“I mean it,” I continued, voice low. “If this is Marco, he won’t stop. He’s not going to give up until I come out.”

His voice was steady. “You’re not going out there.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“My boss did,” Roy said, meeting my gaze. “And his orders were clear—keep you safe. That means keeping you in here. No matter what.”

His calm was both reassuring and maddening.

I opened my mouth to argue, to tell him that hiding didn’t make me safe—it just made me helpless—but before I could say a word, another explosion slammed into the walls above us. Louder this time. Closer.

The lights overhead flickered for half a second before returning to normal.

I let out a shaky breath, heart hammering again.

Roy didn’t move.

And just like that, the argument left my mouth. I sank lower against the wall, legs stretched out in front of me now. My body felt heavy. My mind heavier.

The only thing louder than the noise above us was the war going on inside my own head.

The heat crept in slow.

It was subtle at first—just a little warmth clinging to the air—but now it was thick enough to feel. The kind that sticks to your skin and makes your clothes feel heavier than they are. I was already restless, already sweating in this thin excuse for a nightgown, and Roy was still standing in full tactical gear like he was carved from stone.

Finally, he moved. He pulled off the heavy black jacket and tossed it over a chair in the corner. I tried not to look.

I did anyway.

His undershirt was dark and damp, clinging to every hard line underneath. His chest rose and fell slow and steady, arms flexing slightly as he rolled his shoulders back. The fabric stuck to him in all the wrong places. Or maybe the right ones. His abs pressed faintly against the cotton. And when my eyes dipped a little lower, I immediately regretted it.

His bulge was obvious.

I looked away so fast I almost gave myself whiplash.

It’s the adrenaline, I told myself. The stress. The end-of-the-world vibe in the air. Also, I hadn’t had sex in months, and my body clearly didn’t care who was in the room. It just wanted to feel something besides panic.

I stood up too fast and muttered something about needing to move. I started poking around the shelves near the far wall—metal racks stacked with supplies. Distraction was better than thirst.

Tinned food. Water bottles. Even a few sealed energy bars.

I grabbed one of the cans and turned back to Roy. “Seriously?”

He gave me a casual shrug. “We never know how long we’ll be stuck down here.”

Great.

I put the can back and kept exploring, moving further down the line. Found a folded blanket, a few lanterns, and then finally—first aid kits. Neatly packed, fully stocked. My fingers brushed over the edge of one.

“For a place this equipped,” I said, glancing over my shoulder, “shouldn’t there be access to the security cameras or something?”

Roy nodded. “There should be.”

I raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“We’ve just never needed them before.”

Of course. That would change now, wouldn’t it?

I leaned back against the cold shelves, trying not to let my brain spiral again. But it was hard when the only other thing to look at was Roy… and the very real, very built body standing across the room.

The quiet had settled again.

Not peaceful quiet—just the kind that came when you’d run out of things to say and were both pretending not to notice the tension. I sat cross-legged near the shelves, fingers picking at the label of a water bottle I wasn’t even drinking. Roy was back by the door, arms crossed, listening to whatever static buzzed in his earpiece.

The only sound was our breathing. Low. Measured. The low hum of the bunker’s backup system pulsing faintly through the walls.

Then it happened.

Bang.

A loud, solid knock against the steel door.

Not an explosion. Not a vibration.

A knock.

My head snapped up. Roy’s body went rigid.

It came again, slower this time. Bang. Bang. Bang.

Deliberate.

The sound echoed through the room like it didn’t belong, like whoever—or whatever—was on the other side wanted us to know it was there. Not a kick. Not a battering ram. A knock.

Like someone asking to be let in.

I looked at Roy. He looked at me.

Neither of us moved.

“What the hell was that?” I whispered, barely trusting my own voice.

He didn’t answer. His hand hovered near his holster now, the calmness he’d been carrying like armor suddenly not as solid.

The knock came again. Louder. Sharper. Closer.

Bang.

Bang.

Then silence.

Just me, Roy, and the sound of my pulse pounding in my ears.

Who the hell knocks on a bunker door?

And more importantly… how did they know where it was?

I turned to Roy, whose eyes looked peeled as he reached for his gun.