She hadn’t even enunciated the P oftrappedbefore the lock to the hatch started beeping.
Someone outside was inputting a code.
She scrambled to her feet, still clutching her jacket as Thomas grabbed for the rifle.
But the system made a noise she’d never heard before—the code was an incorrect guess and it had been rejected.
That was good.
But someone—most likely a lot of someones were outside. They’d found the keypad and were trying to get in.
That was definitely bad.
“Can you walk?” Thomas asked her.
“I can,” Tash said, grabbing her bloodstained shirt and heading for the stairs.
Thomas was right behind her, carrying the rifle as he followed her down and through the fortified door. He closed and locked it behind him with a very final-soundingthunk.
* * *
And there they were. Locked into the relative safety of the former bomb shelter, Thomas staring at Tasha as Tasha stared back.
The worst had happened. Not only were they in siege mode, but he’d just kissed her.
She was standing there, still holding her bloodied winter jacket up against her bare breasts. Her jeans were torn at the knees, and her injured arm was in need of some serious cleaning. Her hair was tangled around her face. Her eyes were wide and her mouth...
Thomas realized he was standing there, staring at that mouth that he’d just thoroughly kissed, and yeah, he was equally thoroughly screwed, because he wanted to kiss her again.
And no, he corrected himself, the worst hadn’t happened. He was alive and Tasha was, too. And even though their location had been discovered by the men who were hunting them, that still wasn’t even close to the worst that he would’ve been experiencing if he’d found Tasha dead or dying. It would be good to remember that.
As far as kissing her...? It had been awful. And wonderful. And terrifying. He felt, in its aftermath, as if he were wearing his entire cardiovascular system outside of his skin—totally raw and exposed.
And desperate for more. He wanted to just hit pause on the danger they were in, just set down the rifle, and...
“What do we do now?” she broke the silence to ask. “I mean, you kissing me again would be nice.”
He laughed at the fact that she’d dare to say that, and yet he wasn’t all that surprised. She was, after all, Tasha.
And of course, she wasn’t done, “But I suspect it’s not a priority.”
“Good guess.” Thomas nodded, spurred into action—first double-checking that the door absolutely was secure. If the hostiles breached the hatch—whenthey breached the hatch—they’d still have to get through this door.
It was as close to impenetrable as a door could be—designed to withstand a nuclear blast—but there were other ways to get inside of a locked bomb shelter.
Jesus, he had to get out of this raincoat. And he had to get Tash showered and her wounds bandaged—as quickly as possible, while they still had running water.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he said as he peeled the raincoat off his arms. God, his sweat plus the debris from the ashes and charred wood was nasty.
“Let’s getyoucleaned up, too,” she countered. “How are you covered with... Is thatsoot?”
“Long story,” he said.
“Please tell me it involves a secret portal to a magical dimension where you found gainful employment as a singing-and-dancing chimney sweep.”
He laughed again. “Sadly, no. Do you need help in the shower?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Do I?” She tried to look over her shoulder at the gash on her arm, but she still couldn’t see it. “Do I need stitches? Can I get this wet?”
