Chapter Seven
The compound rose out of the Delta flatland like something from another century—a converted cotton gin, all brick and corrugated iron, surrounded by bikes and men who looked like they'd kill you as soon as look at you.
Grace climbed off Crossroad's bike with her bag of salvaged flour in one hand and her recipe binder in the other, because she'd be damned if she was leaving either one in an abandoned truck stop.
"Home sweet home," Crossroad said, but there was tension in his voice. The restless energy she'd noticed at the safehouse was worse here—like being on familiar ground made him more aware of how much he wanted to be moving.
"You grew up here?"
"I grew up on the road." He gestured toward the main building. "This is just where I park."
The distinction said everything about him.
Brothers moved through the lot with purpose—some nodding at Crossroad, others eyeing Grace with undisguised curiosity. She straightened her spine and met their gazes, refusing to shrink under the attention.
She'd spent three years waitressing in places rougher than this. She knew how to hold her ground.
"Come on." Crossroad's hand found the small of her back, guiding her toward the entrance. "I'll show you around."
The tour was brief and slightly awkward—a man more comfortable behind handlebars than playing host, showing her the bar, the common areas, the garage full of bikes that gleamed like holy relics.
He moved through the space with the restless energy of someone who knew every exit but never planned to use them.
"Kitchen's through there," he said, nodding toward a doorway. "If you need anything."
Grace pushed through the door and stopped dead.
The kitchen was a crime scene.
Ancient equipment lined the walls, most of it older than she was. The stove had two working burners at best. The refrigerator hummed with the desperate wheeze of machinery on its last legs. And the spice rack—
She walked over and picked up a bottle of oregano. The sell-by date was from six years ago.
"This is..." She couldn't find words sufficient to the horror.
"Functional," Crossroad offered.
"This is a war crime against cooking." She opened a cabinet and found three cans of beans, a jar of something unidentifiable, and a bag of rice that had definitely been visited by weevils. "How do you people survive?"
"Carefully."
She turned to find him leaning in the doorway, watching her with something that might have been amusement. The tension in his shoulders had eased slightly—maybe because he was watching her react instead of being the one on display.
"I'm going to fix this," she said.
"The kitchen?"
"Everything." She set down the ancient oregano. "I don't know how long I'm going to be here, but I'm not eating from a kitchen that would fail every health inspection ever invented."
"I'll let Cottonmouth know." His mouth curved. "Though I'm not sure he'll know what to do with a clean kitchen."
A voice came from behind him—warm, amused, female. "He'll figure it out. The man's adaptable."
Crossroad stepped aside, and a woman appeared in the doorway. Dark hair, sharp eyes, the kind of presence that said she'd been exactly where Grace was standing once and had figured out how to own it.
"Jolene Mayes." She extended a hand. "I run the juke joint down the highway. And I'm married to the president, so if anyone gives you trouble, let me know."
Grace shook her hand. Strong grip, callused palms—a woman who worked. "Grace Kelley. I run a bakery. Or I did, before it became a war zone."
"Heard about that." Jolene's eyes were assessing but not unkind. "Also heard you grabbed a knife when they came through your door, and you were making biscuits an hour later."
"Word travels fast."
"In this club? Speed of light." Jolene glanced at Crossroad. "You going to hover all night, or are you going to let me steal her for a bit?"
Something flickered across his face—reluctance, maybe. The same possessive edge Grace had seen when he'd pulled her from the truck stop office.
"I need to debrief Cottonmouth anyway." He looked at Grace. "You'll be okay?"
"I'll be fine." She held his gaze. "Go do your job."
He hesitated another beat—just long enough to make Jolene raise an eyebrow—then nodded and disappeared down the hall.
"Well." Jolene turned back to Grace with a knowing smile. "That was interesting."
"What was?"
"The part where the Road Captain didn't want to let you out of his sight." She leaned against the counter, crossing her arms. "He's not usually the hovering type."
"He's protective." Grace found herself defending him, which was strange. "The Kings are after me specifically. It makes sense that he'd want to—"
"Honey, I've been around these men for a while now." Jolene's voice softened. "Protective looks different than that. That was possessive. That was a man who's already decided you're his, even if he hasn't said it out loud."
Grace felt heat climb her cheeks. "We barely know each other."
"Sometimes that's all it takes." Jolene pushed off the counter. "Come on. Let me introduce you to Nora, and we'll get you set up in the guest room. You look like you could sleep for a week."
The next hour passed in a blur of introductions and logistics. Nora Pickett—a sturdy woman with farrier's arms and a dry sense of humor—brought clean sheets and a change of clothes. Jolene found towels, soap, basic supplies.
They moved around the compound with the easy confidence of women who'd made this place their home, and Grace found herself relaxing despite everything.
"The kitchen really is yours if you want it," Jolene said as they walked toward the guest quarters. "Most of us can barely boil water, and the brothers eat like wolves. Anyone who can actually cook is worth their weight in gold around here."
"I'd need supplies. Real supplies, not whatever's fossilizing in those cabinets."
"Make a list. We'll get it handled." Jolene stopped outside a door. "This is you. Bathroom's down the hall, kitchen's open whenever you want it, and if you need anything—"
"Let you know." Grace managed a tired smile. "Thank you. Both of you."
"We take care of our own," Nora said simply. "And you're ours now, whether you planned to be or not."
They left her alone, and Grace stood in the small guest room—clean sheets, a single window, the distant sound of engines and male voices—trying to process everything that had happened in the past three days.
Her bakery was a war zone. Her awning was ashes. She'd watched a man die this morning—watched Crossroad put a bullet in his skull and felt nothing but satisfaction.
That last part should probably bother her more than it did.
She showered, changed into borrowed clothes that didn't quite fit, and lay down on the narrow bed. The mattress was firmer than hers at home. The pillow smelled like industrial detergent. The ceiling had a water stain in one corner that looked vaguely like a rabbit.
None of it should have been comforting.
But the compound was quiet now, settling into evening, and for the first time in three days Grace didn't feel like she was waiting for the next attack.
She closed her eyes and thought about Crossroad.
The way he'd paced the truck stop, restless as a caged animal. The way he'd moved through the fight this morning—cold, precise, utterly controlled. The way he'd said "my woman" to a dying man like the words were a fact, not a claim.
He was dangerous. Everything about him screamed danger—the road name, the club, the blood she'd seen on his boots when he pulled her from the office.
But when he looked at her, she didn't feel afraid.
She felt... safe.
Not the kind of safe she'd built for herself—the four AM mornings and the locked doors and the constant vigilance of a woman who'd learned early that no one was coming to help.
This was different. This was the safety of knowing someone else was watching, planning, ready to move if anything came at her.
She'd been the only one awake at three-thirty in the morning for fourteen months. The only one worrying about the bills, the repairs, the thousand small crises that came with running a business alone.
Crossroad made her feel like she didn't have to be alone anymore.
Like maybe—just maybe—there was someone who'd be awake at three-thirty with her. Someone whose calm would steady her when things fell apart. Someone who'd kill for her and not apologize for it.
The thought should have terrified her.
Instead, it settled into her chest like warmth, like relief, like the first deep breath after drowning.
Grace lay in the dark, listening to the compound quiet around her, and let herself imagine a future she'd never thought to want.
A soft-spoken road man with eyes that never stopped moving.
A kitchen that needed saving.
And maybe—just maybe—the chance to stop fighting alone.