You Are Mine Little Sister (by Syra Tucker) novel Chapter 122

He took us to a corner on the second floor where he placed his thumb against a spot in the wall. This spot was literally blank and blended with the walls around it. So, when it did split at a hidden seam and swung inward to reveal a narrow stairwell, I gasped.

"What the hell is this!?"

I saw him smile before he stepped through. The stairs went on longer than felt civilized, concrete swallowing sound, the vent's low drone sewing up the quiet.

At the bottom was a bunker. Not movie props. Real. There were shelves stacked with sealed provisions, blue drums of water, a wall of matte-black steel and gun oil that could only be described as an armory.

Holy hell.

"Think you can stand?" He asked to which I gave a nod.

He eased me down but didn't release my hand until he felt the wobble leave my knees. Ugh. I hated this side of him. This guy nearly killed me a while ago. A stranger seeing this side of him would think he treated me like a princess.

"You had a bunker this whole time!?" My eyes were wide as I took in the sight.

"I did. And you're the first to know about it."

I looked at him with surprise which then twisted into something warm and irresponsible like pride.

"This is for emergencies," he said as I made a slow, scrutinizing pass around the room. "I keep a very close eye on my trio and should know when they mean harm. Still, prepared is better."

I took note of the items in the room. The provisions should be enough to sustain someone for weeks. He really was steps ahead.

A jittery fizz woke low in my belly at the thought that I knew something no one else did. When I turned back, he was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, one ankle hooked over the other. Shirtless, still. Effortlessly beautiful.

I had no doubt he'd been staring at my naked ass while I wandered around his bunker.

My eyes fell to his tattoos. Those tiny write-ups especially. Maybe it was the thrill of knowing something no one else did, but I suddenly wanted more.

I crossed the space to him. He kept his hands crossed, his eyes tracking me even as I ran a fingertip along the tiny letters inked into his skin.

"What language is this?"

I could feel his stare on my breasts as I read what I couldn't understand.

"Ilokano."

My eyes met his, brows furrowed.

He clarified, "It's a dialect in the Philippines."

"Oh," I huffed a small laugh, still tracing the line. "You didn't strike me as someone who collects random dialects."

My fingers drifted over the ridges of his abs until his next words froze me.

"It was my mother's."

There was an icier edge in his voice, one that was impossible to miss.

"Your mother was from the Philippines?" My voice carried a quiet edge I couldn't sand down.

He gave a clipped nod.

Wow. I had no idea.

"What happened to her?" Oh, for the love of God, I wish he'd keep talking.

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