I nodded, moving to the back of my truck. The tailgate dropped with a metallic groan, revealing stacks of grocery bags. Rancor moved beside me, close enough I could feel the heat radiating from him but not touching.
We fell into a rhythm, each grabbing bags and carrying them toward the kitchen. The first fat raindrops hit as we made our third trip, spattering against the dust like small explosions. The wind picked up, bending the trees at the compound’s edge.
“Crap,” I said, eyeing the remaining bags as the rain intensified. My hair began sticking to my neck, dampening quickly.
Rancor studied the sky, his expression tightening. He moved past me, gathering twice as many bags as before, his muscles straining beneath his shirt. “Storm’s gonna hit hard.”
As if on cue, lightning flashed, followed almost immediately by a crack of thunder that I felt in my chest. The sky opened up, rain suddenly pouring down in sheets. Within seconds, I was soaked, my T-shirt clinging to my skin, water running into my eyes.
Rancor set his bags inside the kitchen door on the counter. “Leave it,” he called over the roar of the downpour as he shut the door. “Prospects are on the way.” He held out his hand. “Come with me.”
I hesitated, watching rain pound into the remaining groceries. “But the food --”
“Is taken care of.” Another flash of lightning, anotherboom of thunder. The rain hammered down harder, stinging my exposed skin. Rancor held out his hand. “I’ll get you some dry clothes and you can wait out the storm with me.” He ducked his head slightly, but not before I saw a stain of red blush on his cheeks above his beard line. “I mean, if you want to.”
I stared at his outstretched hand. This was different from a kiss in the compound yard. This was entering his private space. Crossing a line that had nothing to do with physical touch and everything to do with trust.
As if on cue, the door burst open to admit two younger men. A strong gust of wind nearly knocked me sideways and the decision made itself. I took his hand.
His fingers closed around mine, warm despite the cold rain, and he tugged me away from the kitchen, deeper into the warehouse. His grip was firm but gentle as he led me through the massive building to the back of the common room. From there, he took me through another door leading to a long, wide hallway with doors at intervals along the walls.
Rancor -- Marcus -- moved down the hall to stop in front of one of the doors. He fished a key from his pocket. When he pushed the door open, he stood aside, letting me enter first.
I stepped into his space, taking in everything at once. The apartment was sparse but clean, with an open layout that revealed a small kitchen area, a living room with a worn leather couch, and a doorway I assumed led to a bedroom. What caught my attention, though, was the wall of windows on one side, partially covered by a roof overhang to create a sheltered porch. Through the glass, I could see the garden below, not being lashed by rain.
“Bathroom’s there if you need it,” he said, pointing to a door on the left I’d missed when I’d first entered.
“No. Good. Thank you.”
“Come,” he said simply, reaching out for me to take hishand. Once again, I did, this time I allowed myself to relax, to let him slip his fingers through mine and tug me gently after him.
He took me through the door onto a covered porch that stretched along the back of the building. The space was sheltered by a metal roof that extended several feet outward, keeping the rain at bay. Two wooden chairs sat side-by-side, facing outward. The small garden looked freshly tended with loving care. It held various herbs instead of flowers or fruits and vegetables.
“Sit.” Rancor gestured to one of the chairs. The gray T-shirt clung lovingly to his arms and chest. It was hard not to see how strong the man was. I lowered myself into the chair, not exactly at ease, but the sound of the rain and the rolling thunder was soothing. The scent of rain-soaked earth rose up, mingling with the fragrance of the herbs and fresh-cut grass. The rain was heavy, but the thunder only rumbled, any lightning well off in the distance.
Rancor settled into the chair beside mine, his large frame making the wooden seat look almost too small, yet his presence filled the space without being overwhelming.
We sat in comfortable silence for several minutes, watching the rain fall like a curtain on the garden below. I tried to relax, to ease the tension from my shoulders, but awareness of him beside me kept me rigid. Yesterday I’d kissed this man without hesitation. Today, sitting fully clothed on his porch, I felt more exposed than I had in years.
The garden captivated me despite my nervousness. Even through the rain, I could see the loving way the small bed had been cared for. The juxtaposition of the way he tended the herb garden and the man whose road name was the very definition of deep, bitter anger wasn’t lost on me.
I jumped when there was an unexpected clap of thunder amid the lazy rumbling. The rain picked up and the sound was loud enough to make conversation impossible. Despite the firstbig boom of thunder, I found the sound of the wind and rain oddly peaceful.
Rancor’s gaze shifted to me, those dark eyes taking in my jumpy reaction. His expression remained neutral, but something in his posture changed, softened almost imperceptibly. “You’re safe here. But we can go back inside if you want.”
I looked over at him and smiled. “I like it here. I’m good until you tell me otherwise.”
I must have said the exact right thing because he gave me a startled expression before smiling at me, reaching for my hand again. Again, I let him lace his fingers through mine, and we watched the storm raging just beyond the overhang.
Minutes stretched in silence, broken only by the storm’s percussion. Thunder rumbled, softer now, moving away from us. The rain continued to pour, but the frantic intensity had eased to a steady rhythm.
“Sarah planted everything,” he said, the words emerging from him like he’d had to pull them from somewhere deep inside him. “My wife.” I turned to look at him, surprised by this voluntary offering of information. His gaze remained fixed on the garden, raindrops sliding down his profile. “She started with herbs.” He gestured toward a section near the center. “Cooking herbs first. Then medicinal. Said a garden should heal both hunger and sickness. The roses came later.” His hand moved toward the far edge where climbing roses clung to a trellis. “For our third anniversary. Said we needed something just for beauty.” A pause, heavy with memory. “Was gonna add fruit trees next. Had it all mapped out.”
The past tense hung between us. Had. Was gonna. I thought about the man kneeling in the soil, tending what his wife had started. Preserving what she couldn’t finish.
“It’s beautiful,” I said softly. “You’ve kept it alive.”
His jaw tightened, the muscles working beneath the skin. “Least I could do.” Another pause. “After I couldn’t keep her alive. Knight and Oktober helped keep it while I was in prison.”
