Page 2 of King of the Weld (The Morrison Brothers #1)

I don't sleep.

I haven't really slept right in years. Instead, I sit in the chair across from the couch, watching the woman who calls herself Sophie Vale as she finally gives in to exhaustion.

She's lying. About her name, at least. I've gotten good at spotting liars. I had to, overseas. The wrong trust given at the wrong time could get people killed. But whatever her real name is, the fear in her eyes is genuine enough. She's running from something serious.

Not my problem, I remind myself. I've got enough demons of my own without taking on someone else's.

Dawn breaks slowly, painting my cabin in shades of gray and gold. I've been up for hours already, splitting wood outside to burn off the restless energy that always builds during the night.

The rhythm of the ax—the swing, the crack, the split—quiets my mind in the same way the forge does. It's simple. Predictable. Unlike people.

I pause and check on her again through the window. Still sleeping, curled tight under the blanket like she's trying to make herself smaller. Strange habit for a woman her size. She's tall, remarkably so, with curves that her tattered dress can't hide.

The coffee is just finishing when I hear her stir. I pour two mugs and turn to find her standing in the doorway between the living room and kitchen, the blanket wrapped around her shoulders like a cloak. Her feet are still bandaged, but I can see spots of red bleeding through the gauze.

"Morning," I say, holding out a mug. "Black okay?"

She nods, taking it. "Thank you."

Her voice is softer now, less raspy with sleep and dehydration.

Everything about her screams privileged upbringing. From her posture to the way she holds the mug with her pinky slightly extended. Even half-dead and dressed in rags, she has the bearing of someone who was taught how to enter a room properly.

"Your feet need changing," I say, nodding toward the kitchen chair. "Sit."

She hesitates, then complies, wincing as she settles into the chair. I kneel in front of her, setting my own coffee aside as I reach for the first aid kit I keep under the sink. When I gently take her right foot in my hand, she tenses.

"I won't hurt you," I say, not looking up as I begin unwrapping the soiled bandage.

"I know," she replies, though her foot remains rigid in my grip.

Her feet tell their own story. Soft, uncalloused—the feet of someone who's never worked a day in her life. But they're strong too, high-arched and graceful despite the cuts and bruises that cover them. I clean each wound slowly, applying antiseptic that makes her hiss through her teeth.

"Sorry," I mutter, though we both know it's necessary.

"It's fine," she says, and I can feel her watching me. "You've done this before."

It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "Army medic training. Everyone in my unit had to learn the basics."

"You were a soldier."

Again, not a question. I nod, focusing on wrapping fresh gauze around her foot rather than meeting her eyes. I don't like talking about my service. I don’t like thinking about it either, though my mind rarely gives me a choice on that front.

"Afghanistan?" she asks.

My hands pause for just a moment before continuing their work. "Among other places."

She doesn't press further, which I appreciate. Most people can't help themselves. They want details, war stories, the kind of shit that makes them feel patriotic or grateful or whatever. They don't really want to know the truth of it.

I finish with her right foot and move to the left, which is in even worse shape. A particularly deep gash crosses her heel, angry and red-edged.

"This needs stitches," I tell her.

"No hospitals," she says immediately, her voice tight with panic.

Her face is striking even beneath the dirt and exhaustion. High cheekbones, full lips, dark eyes wide with fear. Beautiful, in the way dangerous things often are.

"I can do it," I say finally. "Won't be pretty, but it'll hold."

Relief washes over her face. "Thank you."

I retrieve what I need from my emergency kit. Needle, surgical thread, more antiseptic. When I return, she's sipping her coffee, knuckles white around the mug.

"This will hurt," I warn her.

"I can handle it." The determined set of her jaw makes me believe her.

I clean the wound thoroughly, then prepare the needle. "Ready?"

She nods, setting the coffee aside and gripping the edges of the chair. I work quickly, making neat, small stitches just like I was taught. To her credit, she barely makes a sound, just sharp intakes of breath and the occasional tremble of her leg under my hand.

When I finish, I wrap her foot with care, then sit back on my heels. "Done."

She releases her death grip on the chair, flexing her fingers. "You're good at that."

I shrug, packing away the supplies. "Had practice."

"On yourself too?" she asks, and something in her tone makes me look up.

"Sometimes," I admit.

I stand, putting distance between us as I wash my hands in the sink. The silence stretches, not entirely uncomfortable but loaded with unasked questions.

"You need clothes," I add, drying my hands on a dish towel. "And food. I've got some of my brother's things that might fit you. He's not as tall, but they'll be better than that dress."

"Your brother?"

"Youngest one. Jack. He crashes here sometimes between rodeos."

"You have other brothers?" she asks, and there's something almost wistful in her voice.

"Three total. All pains in my ass in their own special ways." The comment draws a small smile from her.

I retrieve a flannel shirt and jeans from the spare room, tossing them to her along with a belt. "Bathroom's through there if you want to clean up. Towels under the sink."

She catches the clothes, clutching them to her chest like I've handed her gold. "Thank you. I... I don't know how to repay you."

"Not looking for repayment," I say gruffly. "Just the truth would be nice."

Her eyes widen slightly, and I see her throat work as she swallows. "What do you mean?"

"For starters, your real name would be good."

She hesitates, fingers tightening on the clothes. "Sophia," she says finally. "Sophia Valentine."

The name registers immediately. Everyone in this part of the country knows the Valentines—old money, massive estate about fifty miles south of here. The kind of family that has their name on hospital wings and university buildings.

"Valentine," I repeat. "As in—"

"Yes," she cuts me off. "Those Valentines."

Well, shit. This complicates things. If she's running from her family, there will be resources behind the search. Money, connections, possibly even law enforcement. The Valentines don't lose things that belong to them, and from what I know of that world, daughters are possessions more than people.

"The wedding dress," I say, putting it together. "Arranged marriage?"

She nods, looking down at her bandaged feet. "To a monster with the right bloodline and bank account."

I've known men like that. Entitled, cruel, hiding behind family names and social standing. I’ve seen them in every country I've served in, wearing different clothes but all the same underneath.

"They'll be looking for you," I say. Not a question.

"Yes." Her voice is small but resolute. "My father doesn't accept failure. Or disobedience."

I run a hand over my face, feeling the beard rasp against my palm.

This is exactly the kind of complication I don't need in my life.

I left society behind for a reason: to keep my darkness contained, to protect others from what combat turned me into.

The last thing I need is to get involved in some high-society family drama.

And yet.

"Go clean up," I tell her, turning toward the stove. "I'll make breakfast. Then we'll figure out next steps."

She stands, testing her weight on her bandaged feet. "You're still helping me?" The surprise in her voice speaks volumes about the kind of treatment she's used to.

I shrug, not looking at her. "Helping might be overstating it. But I'm not throwing you back to the wolves. Not today, anyway."

I hear her move toward the bathroom, the uneven shuffle of her steps revealing how much pain she's still in despite her brave face. At the doorway, she pauses.

"Ethan?"

I glance over my shoulder.

"Thank you. For not... For seeing me."

Before I can respond, she disappears into the bathroom, and I hear the water start running. Her words echo in my head as I start cooking eggs and bacon. For seeing me. Such a simple thing to be grateful for, and yet I understand it perfectly.

I've been invisible too, in my own way. I came back from war to find that no one could really see me anymore, just the uniform, the medals, the scars both visible and hidden. My brothers try, but even they look at me and see who I used to be, not who I am now.

The sound of the shower running fills the cabin, and I try not to think about Sophia Valentine naked in my bathroom, washing away days of fear and flight.

Try not to picture water sluicing over those curves, through that long dark hair.

It's been years since I've allowed myself to think of a woman that way.

My life doesn't have room for it. I don't have room for it.

I'm damaged goods. Dangerous. The nightmares that wake me screaming, the flashbacks that can turn me from calm to combat-ready in seconds… These aren't things you inflict on someone else. Especially not someone already running from her own demons.

By the time she emerges, I've got breakfast on the table and my thoughts under control.

She's swimming in Jack’s clothes, the flannel shirt knotted at her waist, jeans rolled up at the ankles.

But even in borrowed clothes, with her hair wet and face scrubbed clean, there's no disguising what she is—a Valentine, through and through.

Beautiful, refined, and completely out of place in my simple cabin.

"Feel better?" I ask, setting a plate of food at the empty place.